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Together again: Gagosian exhibition celebrates Freud’s centenary

 by reuniting the artist with his closest friends  





The show will feature works by Freud, Francis Bacon, Frank Auerbach, Michael Andrews

and the photographer Bruce Bernard






If it is true that you can judge a man’s character by the company he keeps, then Gagosian’s forthcoming exhibition, Friends and Relations, has much to say about Lucian Freud. One of many shows across the UK that will mark the artist’s centenary this year, Friends and Relations will situate his works among those by three others with whom he was close: Francis Bacon, Frank Auerbach and Michael Andrews.

The exhibition will feature around 40 paintings, roughly half of which are by Freud, loaned from both private collectors and institutions. The idea for the show, which opens on 18 November and was curated by the art historian Richard Calvocoressi (formerly of the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art and Tate), came from a photograph of the four painters at Wheeler’s Restaurant in Soho, London, in 1963. The picture was taken by a friend and occasional subject of the group, the bohemian photographer John Deakin, who Bacon had commissioned to take photographs of his friends that he would later use as the basis for his paintings.

“For Freud’s centenary, The National Gallery in London is mounting a retrospective of his work, ” Calvocoressi says. “I thought rather than put on a complementary Freud exhibition, it would be more interesting to look at this group of friends and see how they reacted to each other’s work. ” The four painters shared many of their sitters and models, providing the exhibition with a great deal of common ground, Calvocoressi adds so “why not look at them as a sort of core. Not exactly a formalised group in any way, not a school or anything like that, but rather a group of friends who saw each other a lot and who sparked off each other?”

Freud and Bacon’s relationship is on full view in Three Studies for Portraits: Isabel Rawsthorne, Lucian Freud and J.H. (1966), while The Painter’s Mother Resting III (1977) is an early entry in a series of 18 portraits of the artist’s mother, Lucie Freud, which he began after the death of his father, Ernst Freud, in 1970. Andrews’s group portrait from 1962, The Colony Room I, features both Freud and Bacon, as well as the artist’s model Henrietta Moraes, and Muriel Belcher, who ran The Colony Room, one of the Soho haunts favoured by the group. Two portraits by Auerbach, formerly in Freud’s collection, will be lent to the exhibition from museums in Britain.

With a few exceptions the works are from the 1960s, when the four were closest. It was also a time “when figurative painting was very much going out of fashion,” Calvocoressi says. “With the rise of Minimalism, conceptual art and politicised art they stuck to the idea of paint on canvas and tried to represent the human presence in some sort of way.”

The exhibition will be accompanied by a smaller show: Bruce Bernard: Portraits of Friends. Bernard, a picture editor and writer, was a close friend of all four artists, and his photographs of the painters in their studios, some formal and some more candid, will further contextualise the relationships embedded in the paintings on view.

Friends and Relations: Lucian Freud, Francis Bacon, Frank Auerbach, Michael Andrews and Bruce Bernard: Portraits of Friends, 17 November 2022-28 January 2023, Gagosian, 20 Grosvenor Hill, London





      Group portrait of painters (left to right) Timothy Behrens, Lucian Freud, Francis Bacon,

      Frank Auerbach and Michael Andrews at Wheelers Restaurant in Soho, London, 1963





Francis Bacon pulls the rug out






While Francis Bacon’s art has been exhibited all over the world and he’s acknowledged as one of the most important painters of modern times, far less attention is paid to his time as an interior designer. But in the late 1920s, inspired by his European travels and the likes of Bauhaus and Le Corbusier, Bacon designed modernist rugs and furniture. His showroom – Francis Bacon Modern Decoration: Furniture in Metal, Glass and Wood; Rugs and Lights – contributed important works to British interior design and the rugs, in particular, are resonant of his early paintings.

Bacon often destroyed his work (his slashed and abandoned canvases are a headache for the authors of his catalogue raisonné) and, as his time as a furniture designer was so brief, little of his furniture remains – only seven of the 12 rugs he created still exist. One is in the Victoria and Albert Museum collection, another is at the Château de Gourdon, France, one of the most exceptional collections of art deco works in the world.

But next month, one comes up for sale at a Sotheby’s auction to mark 30 years since Bacon’s death and to celebrate the artist’s love of France. Bacon was a Francophile, and he was deeply respected by the nation. He was honoured with an exhibition at the Grand Palais in 1971 – the first living artist to achieve this since his hero, Picasso, in 1966. He also lived in Paris from 1974 to 1987.

The rug features the string instrument and brickwork which also appear in one of his earliest paintings, Gouache (1929).

The auction at Sotheby’s will be held on 24 October at the end of Paris+ week – the first Parisian edition of the Art Basel fair.  





‘A class of his own’: Sale of rare Bacon works

marks 30th anniversary of artist’s death




The auction will include rarely seen paintings, rugs, photographs and letters






 As a teenager, the artist, Francis Bacon, famously ran away to Paris to escape school and an authoritarian, homophobic father who had thrown him out of the family home.

Although his visit was brief, Bacon returned to the city two years later and became fascinated with the works of Picasso, Rodin, Degas and Monet. On seeing Picasso’s works at the famous Paul Rosenberg gallery, Bacon would later say: “At that moment I thought, well, I will try and paint too.”

Back in London, Bacon became an interior designer. It was the beginning of a lifelong relationship with the French capital, however, to which he would often return, eventually setting up his studio in the newly trendy Marais district where he lived for more than a decade, from 1975 to 1987.

Now, to mark the anniversary of Bacon’s death 30 years ago on 28 October 1992, one of the artist’s most assiduous collectors, the Monaco-based philanthropist Majid Boustany, founder of the Francis Bacon MB Art Foundation, is selling a number of rare pieces including paintings, photographs and letters.

The highlight of the sale is the 1949 painting Figure Crouching, the earliest surviving work from Bacon’s long-running series of hunched subjects, which he would continue until into the 1970s, valued at up to €5m. Another of the 20 lots is a hand-knotted carpet made while Bacon was working as an interior designer.

Guillaume Mallecot, who is overseeing the auction for Sotheby’s on 24 October, says the artist produced 20 rugs in the late 1920s and early 1930s, of which only seven are believed to exist today.

“We don’t know very well this side of Francis Bacon the interior designer, and very few of the items he produced in the 1930s exist, so this rug adds a touch of magic to the sale,” Mallecot told The Guardian.

A rare surviving painting from the 1930s (Bacon destroyed most of his early works), the Corner of the Studio, which reveals the extent of Picasso’s influence, is also being sold along with a hand-drawn postcard, a paint-covered plate palette from the artist’s Paris studio – one of only three from this time – and several black-and-white photographs, including one by Cecil Beaton and another by Don McCullin.

During his life, Bacon was equally parsimonious with details of his early years, censoring biographers and removing details he did not approve of. However, he admitted that he would not consider himself a success as an artist until he had achieved recognition in France.

“If the French like my work, then I shall feel that I have, to some extent, succeeded,” he said.

They did. A 1971 retrospective at the Grand Palais is considered the zenith of his career – the only other living artist to have been given the honour until then was Picasso, though the event was marred by the suicide of Bacon’s companion, George Dyer, two days earlier in the Paris hotel they were staying in. David Hockney, then 34, and described by Le Monde as a “young rival” of Bacon’s, travelled from London to attend the opening.

“He always thought the English didn’t understand him, that his reception in Paris was decisive in a career, that it was the only place where an artist of his calibre could be recognised,” Didier Ottinger, curator of the 2019 exhibition Bacon en toutes lettres at the Centre Pompidou, told Le Monde at the time.

This was perfectly illustrated by the fact that the president, Georges Pompidou, opened the 1971 retrospective, while the then-prime minister, Margaret Thatcher, described Bacon as: “The man who paints dreadful creatures”.

The success of the Grand Palais exhibition prompted Bacon to buy a studio at rue de Birague in the Marais in 1974, which he kept until 1987.

To mark the sale, British art historian, Martin Harrison, an authority on Bacon’s work, wrote: “Arguably the most significant consequence of Bacon’s reception in Paris in the 1970s was that it reversed the injudicious and casual opinions of British critics who tended to glibly posit a visible decline in his later paintings. French critics ignored such subjectively inclined periodisation and responded with intelligence to major works that were often given their debut in Paris.”

Mallecot says despite the clear influences of other grand masters like Picasso, Bacon remains “in a class of his own”.

“There is no Francis Bacon movement, there is only Francis Bacon. He is a giant in the history of 21st-century art,” he said. “There is no Francis Bacon movement, there is only Francis Bacon. He is a giant in the history of 21st-century art,” he said.

All proceeds from the sale will go to Boustany’s Francis Bacon MB Art Foundation.





                                A portrait of Bacon by Don McCullin.






An Uncertain Image







A collector thought he had bought a painting by the celebrated British artist.


How far would he go to prove it?






In the spring of 1997, an art collector in Geneva received a call from a contact at the city’s office of bankruptcies and legal proceedings. There was an auction coming up, of an estate that had gone unclaimed for nine years, and among the lots was a painting that the collector might want to take a look at: a canvas attributed to the British artist Lucian Freud. The collector was a businessman, originally from North Africa, who was used to picking up furniture and art works at competitive prices from Geneva’s plentiful array of galleries, antique dealers, and salesrooms. He is keen to preserve his privacy, so I will call him Omar.

Omar went to see the painting that day, at the auction house in Carouge, a suburb to the south of the city. The estate had belonged to a man named Adolfo di Camillo, who died in 1988. According to auction records, di Camillo appeared to have been a collector, too. In the seventies, he had sold a seventeenth-century painting of Pan, the Greek god of shepherds, that was once believed to be a Rubens.

The work attributed to Freud was a medium-sized, naturalistic oil portrait of a naked man, painted from the side and from behind. Parts of the background appeared unfinished, or hastily sketched, but the figure itself was skillfully captured, with a certain power. “Oh, it’s interesting, it’s strong,” Omar recalled saying to himself.

The bankruptcy office had attached an estimate of five hundred thousand Swiss francs (about three hundred and fifty thousand dollars) to the work. At the time, a recognized Freud portrait of a named sitter could fetch three times that amount. Omar asked his contact to hold it back, as one of the final lots of the sale, so that the room would be quieter. On the afternoon of March 7th, Omar bought the painting for less than a hundred thousand Swiss francs, or seventy thousand dollars. He also picked up one of di Camillo’s side tables, a lampshade, and a bronze sculpture in the style of Giacometti.

“After I bought the painting, I went home and put it in the rest of my collection and I forgot about it,” Omar told me in French when we met, earlier this year, at an expensive hotel on the lakefront in Geneva. He wore a Harrods baseball cap and was carrying a plastic bag. For years, Freud’s searching, candid portraits went against the overwhelming appetite of the contemporary art market, which was for abstraction. Although he was a famous painter in England, in part because of his surname (Sigmund, his grandfather, went to London as a refugee in 1938), Freud was a respected rather than a fashionable artist in Europe. In 2002, Omar watched a program about his career on Swiss television, which prompted him to learn more about the painting. So he put it on eBay.

Omar posted the ad on the evening of Saturday, November 30th. The item description read “Lucian Freud Painting.” Omar told me that he didn’t intend to sell the work; rather, he hoped to flush out information. “To do a reconnaissance,” he said. Four days later, Omar got a message from the auction site: his item had been blocked because of a copyright complaint. He called eBay’s office in France, and was told that the complaint had come from the artist.

According to Omar, a few days later the phone rang in his apartment. It was early in the afternoon. “I said, ‘Hello, hello,’ and after a long time I heard a voice: ‘I am Freud, Lucian Freud,’ ” Omar recalled. The voice, speaking in English, but with a Germanic rasp, said that he was the rightful owner of Omar’s painting and that he wanted it back. (Omar had put his phone number on the eBay ad.) Omar says that Freud offered him a hundred thousand Swiss francs, which he declined.

Three days later, the voice called back. This time, according to Omar, the man was angry. Freud was eighty years old at the time. The caller offered Omar twice what he had paid for the painting, but still the collector refused to sell. “ ‘No. Sorry,’ ” Omar remembered saying. “ ‘I am loving this painting. I am loving this.’ He said, ‘Fuck you.’ He said, I remember, ‘You will not sell the painting all your life.’ And he hung up.”

Omar has been trying to unravel the meaning of this call—and have his painting authenticated—for the past twenty years. Owning a disputed, possibly wildly valuable, art work is a cruel test of any person’s aesthetic values, basic reason, and innate (often well-disguised) capacity for greed. Close your eyes and there are millions of dollars hanging on the wall. Open them, and there is nothing to see. Hope flares, dies for years at a time, then sparks again, at odd moments. The question of authorship can be both maddeningly simple and frighteningly difficult to resolve. Laboratories and lawyers might tell you what you want to hear, and charge you by the hour. Omar always projected confidence when we spoke. “There is a beautiful story behind this painting,” he told me more than once. But there were days this year when I wished that I had never heard of it at all.

In July, 2005, Omar shipped the portrait to London, where it was examined by Freud’s longtime confidant and biographer, William Feaver. By this time, Omar was wondering if it could be a self-portrait, noting a similarity between the face of the figure and photographs of Freud from the fifties and sixties. In customs documents, he declared the value of the painting to be a million Swiss francs.

Feaver gave it the thumbs-down: the feet were unfinished, which was unlike Freud; the body was too heavily built for a self-portrait; the background was stylistically off. When I asked Feaver about the picture recently, almost seventeen years after the viewing, he had no memory of seeing it at all. But after consulting his diary he agreed with his initial assertion, which was recorded by a gallery assistant at the time. “If this spectral me had gone in, he would have said roundly that it wasn’t by Freud,” Feaver said. “There’s nothing like it in Lucian’s work ever, anywhere, to survive. . . . Every single certifiable one is fundamentally quite different from this rather careful, painstaking, correct thing.”

Freud was shown images of the painting several times, by his daughter Esther and by Pilar Ordovas, a former deputy chairman of postwar and contemporary art at Christie’s, who is now a gallerist. Ordovas grew close to Freud in 2003, after she brought to market a rare urban scene of his, which he had not seen for thirty years. She became a regular visitor to his studio and handled his relationship with the auction house. “The artist was alive. I was doing my duty of showing him this work, slightly embarrassed,” she told me. “He said, ‘Pilar, absolutely not.’ There was not even a moment’s thought or question.” After Esther showed her father images of the painting, Freud asked for his name to be removed from the frame.

Omar had more luck with independent experts. In the summer of 2006, Nicholas Eastaugh, a world authority on pigmentation analysis, travelled to Geneva. Eastaugh examined the painting, which was now being called “Standing Male Nude,” with a microscope, under UV light, and took sixteen tiny paint samples. Eastaugh found “a series of points of similarity and correspondence” between Omar’s painting and known Freud works: traces of charcoal in the paint, the use of hog-hair brushes, which Freud favored starting in the late fifties, and the presence of a loose preparatory drawing, in pencil. On the bottom edge of the canvas, Eastaugh also found a partial fingerprint, which could point to a more definitive connection with the artist.

In life, Freud was a keen guardian of his œuvre and of his privacy. He communicated mostly by phone but did not give out his number, and he changed it often. He was sensitive to the market for his work and hated signing his name. “He was prepared to do whatever was necessary in order to protect what he thought was his right to be able to project to the world what he wanted,” Geordie Greig, a former editor of The Daily Mail and a friend of Freud’s, who wrote a book about him, told me.

Most of Freud’s failed paintings never left the studio. “Lucian was an avid destroyer of works that went wrong,” Feaver wrote me, in an e-mail. “I can remember many awaiting the cull. Generally, these—portraits especially—would be stiff and, more often, disproportionate.” Freud also kept an eye on paintings long after he made them. Throughout his career, he became angry when substandard works found their way to the market or forgotten canvases resurfaced. In the early fifties, the house of Gerald Gardiner, Freud’s lawyer at the time, was broken into and a single picture was taken: a portrait of Carol, Gardiner’s daughter, which Freud had painted but didn’t think much of. The story gave rise to a legend, encouraged by Freud, that he paid criminals to get hold of paintings that displeased him or that he regretted seeing out in the world. Late in his life, one of Freud’s daughters, Rose Boyt, hesitated to send him a painting for authentication, for fear that he would punch a hole in it instead.

“Everything had to be remarkable,” Greig said. Freud was drawn to extremes, and to fights. In the early seventies, John Craxton, an artist and an intimate friend of Freud’s, sold some of his drawings to a collector. When a dealer asked Freud to sign the sketches, he was furious, writing, “John Craxton is a cunt” on one of them. Freud’s fight with Craxton—a mess of legal letters and injunctions—went on for years. At one point, according to Ian Collins, Craxton’s biographer, Freud managed to have a Craxton portrait called “Lucian” removed from an exhibition, by saying it was not of him. “They became an art form,” Collins said of Freud’s feuds. “He had this phenomenal energy. He actually needed this to get him fired up. He needed enemies.”

Freud died in 2011, at the age of eighty-eight. From then on, his estate, and his lawyers, took over the protection of his name. Omar felt that every attempt to have his painting authenticated, or even looked at, resulted in a mysterious dead end. Curiosity would turn to silence. A few months after Freud’s death, a French connoisseur named Hector Obalk agreed to go to Geneva. Obalk presents an art-history show on French television. In the preceding decade, he had filmed two hundred and fifty-eight Freud works, collecting hours of footage in collaboration with the artist’s studio. Obalk viewed the painting in Omar’s office. “He had a pipe. He stood for half an hour like this,” Omar recalled, striking a pose of contemplation.

Obalk had no doubt that the painting was by Freud. But he saw limitations, too. Like Feaver, he found the feet unconvincing. He thought the face showed poor technique. Moreover, he respected Freud’s right to reject the painting. “Authentication of an œuvre does not only depend on the reality of a piece of work, but also on an aesthetic decision sanctioned by a number of acts, such as its signature, the studio output, exhibition in the artist’s lifetime, etc.,” Obalk wrote, in a nine-page report.

But the painting didn’t look like a forgery, or a case of mistaken attribution. Obalk noted a patch of impasto on the figure’s flank—paint so thick that it stands out from the canvas, a characteristic of Freud’s work—and a handling of the flesh tones that recalled several of his other portraits. In Obalk’s analysis, the painting was by Freud but not a Freud. “In our opinion, Standing Male is a canvas which Lucian Freud painted, then abandoned and disowned,” he wrote. “It is always more delicate to authenticate an unfinished work (in which the artist has hit an impasse) than to authenticate a resounding masterpiece.”

Twelve days before he delivered his verdict to Omar, in the spring of 2012, Obalk received a warning from Goodman Derrick, L.L.P., the law firm that represented Freud’s estate. The letter reiterated Freud’s disavowal of the painting during his lifetime. “It seems unclear to us why you may be using your extensive knowledge of the work of Lucian Freud to back an attribution you must know makes no sense,” the letter said. The law firm asked Obalk not to authenticate the painting but “to deny it,” and appeared to threaten any future coöperation by the estate on Obalk’s television work.

Obalk authenticated the painting anyway. He declined to speak for this article. “I have nothing to add,” he said. For several years, he was the only connoisseur willing to study Omar’s portrait, let alone give a positive opinion. The trail went cold until January, 2016, when Omar mounted a private show of his collection at the Freeport, a huge storage facility for art works and other valuables, in Geneva. To his surprise, an acquaintance named Ignacio Moreno stopped in front of “Standing Male Nude,” and said that he had seen it before.

“It was a flashback,” Moreno told me recently. Moreno, who was born in Cuba, is in his mid-sixties. He remembered seeing the nude on the wall of the apartment of the previous owner, di Camillo, where he occasionally went as a young man, in the late seventies. Moreno described the apartment as a gay oasis in Geneva at the time. He showed me a photograph of himself sitting near a fireplace, with another canvas propped against the wall behind him. Curiously, Moreno said that the apartment was used by Francis Bacon when he stayed in the city: a place of mess and paint by day, and raucous gatherings by night.

The relationship between Freud and Bacon, two of Britain’s greatest twentieth-century artists, is one of the most exciting and complex stories in modern art. During the fifties, the two men saw each other almost every day. Bacon was thirteen years older: famous, more obviously transgressive, gregarious and rude, openly gay when homosexual activity was still illegal in Britain. Freud was, in many ways, an unlikely protégé. He was a social celebrity—the weekend guest of aristocrats, turning heads in grotty drinking dens in Soho—magnetic to an almost intolerable degree. People kept falling in love with him. But Freud was haunted by Bacon’s genius: the older artist’s willingness to embrace accident, his feel for paint itself. “Real imagination is technical imagination,” Bacon told Time, in 1952. “It is in the ways you think up to bring an event to life again.”

Each was entranced by the other. Bacon painted Freud at least seventeen times. The younger artist had access to Bacon’s cramped, image-strewn studio. (Bacon preferred to work alone, from photographs, often taken by the artists’ mutual friend John Deakin, which he first crumpled up and threw on the floor.) There was a fierce attraction. A Bacon painting, “Two Figures,” from 1953, which is based on an Eadweard Muybridge photograph of wrestlers but seems to show two men making love, hung opposite Freud’s bed for fifty years. He was reluctant to lend it for exhibitions.

Freud painted Bacon only twice (an exquisite, postcard-size portrait, on copper, from 1952, was stolen in Berlin in 1988 and has never been recovered), but, of the two men, he owed the greater artistic debt. “I got very impatient with the way I was working. It was limiting,” he told Feaver. “I think my admiration for Francis came into this.” In the late fifties, Freud moved away from his hyper-controlled, almost inert painting style to a looser, more baroque mode of portraiture, which he ultimately realized with his candid, sprawling nudes of the eighties and nineties. Freud painted from life, working on some pieces for years at a time. “My work is purely autobiographical,” he said. “It is about myself and my surroundings. It is an attempt at a record. I work from the people that interest me, and that I care about and think about, in rooms that I live in and know.”

As Freud fully matured as an artist, he and Bacon drifted apart, with occasional spats until Bacon’s death, in 1992. In 2008, Freud’s “Benefits Supervisor Sleeping” sold for $33.6 million, making him, for a time, the world’s most expensive living artist. Both painters are now highly collectible, but works that carry a charge of their early love and rivalry are in a category of their own. Earlier this year, a single panel of a Bacon triptych, “Study for Portrait of Lucian Freud,” from 1964, sold for fifty-two million dollars.

The possibility of a connection between Omar’s painting and Bacon was tantalizing. Had Bacon owned the work? What was he doing in Geneva?

In late 2018, Omar asked Thierry Navarro, a Swiss investigator, to get to the bottom of the authentication problem. An engineer by training, Navarro is an alert, quietly stubborn man in his early fifties, who wears half-rimmed glasses and walks extremely fast, as if he were slightly late, which he often is. His other jobs have included developing computer games and a new navigation system for motorcyclists. His father, Pedro, was a landscape artist, and Navarro himself is a self-taught painter. “I’m a multidimensional person, quite a complex one, I guess,” he told me. Nonetheless, Navarro saw the question of Freud’s authorship in binary, provable terms. “It has been denied. That is a fact. No question,” he said. “And there is another fact: the painting is on the table. I mean, it exists. And nothing is against the attribution to Lucian Freud.”

Studying Omar’s file, Navarro noticed that Obalk had flagged the academic, formal pose of the subject as extremely unusual for Freud. “Throw of discus?” Obalk had asked, in parentheses. One evening, as Navarro read up on Bacon, he found himself scrolling through an online copy of “The Human Figure in Motion,” a collection of Muybridge photographs from 1901. “Suddenly, I came to a series of images—then I went slowly,” he recalled. The series was called “athlete. catching at a ball.” Navarro stopped scrolling. “It was just, like, That’s it,” he said.

Navarro zoomed in. To his eye, the pose of Omar’s portrait matched a figure in the third row of the Muybridge series, down to the line of the wall and the floor in the background and a blemish on the figure’s left buttock. “My mind was, just, Wow,” Navarro said. The only difference was that the images were reversed—a discrepancy that could be explained if the artist had been painting in a mirror, which, if the work was a self-portrait, he might have been. “You get the dots and you start drawing a line,” Navarro said. “It’s probably not the entire line, but there are a lot of similarities and consistency, I would say, between all those dots.” If his theory was correct, and Freud had worked from a key Bacon reference, that would make the painting a remarkable artifact of the artists’ relationship. “I think this might have been a challenge requested by Bacon,” Navarro said. “ ‘Can you paint yourself from the back? For me?’ ”

In the spring of 2019, Omar and Navarro approached Art Recognition, a tech company outside Zurich, and asked it to evaluate the painting. Art Recognition uses artificial intelligence to detect the brushstrokes, color palette, compositional choices, and other barely definable mannerisms of individual artists. The C.E.O. is Carina Popovici, a theoretical physicist. She trained the first prototype of the system to recognize works by Max Pechstein, the German Expressionist, in order to weed out fakes by Wolfgang Beltracchi, a notorious forger, and has since worked with museums, galleries, and dozens of private collectors. In 2019, Art Recognition independently authenticated a van Gogh self-portrait at the Norwegian National Museum, in Oslo. When she started out, Popovici worried about giving owners bad news. It turns out that most people are relieved, either way. “They’re just glad to have an answer,” she said.

For Omar’s portrait, Art Recognition used data from two hundred and thirty-five known Freud paintings and more than three hundred paintings by other comparable artists from the same period. These were broken down into a total of some five thousand fragments, which were used to train the A.I. to identify patches of canvas painted by Freud, and those by other artists. For each art work examined by the A.I., Popovici explained, the model is run forty-five times, with slightly different calibrations, to make sure that the over-all result is representative. Popovici’s team found that “Standing Male Nude” had an eighty-nine-per-cent chance of being an original art work by Lucian Freud. “From our point of view, it’s a very, very solid result,” she told me. I asked if, to her knowledge, her A.I. system had ever been wrong. “No,” Popovici replied. Then she laughed for a long time, as though this was somehow an inappropriate question.

The A.I. report appeared to vindicate Navarro’s technical approach to proving that “Standing Male Nude” was by Freud. “There is no feeling,” he said. “It’s just facts.” Navarro came to perceive the rejections of the artist and his estate as a matter of intrigue, rather than facts with meaning of their own.

Why would the painter have denied this? That is really, for me, the point,” he said. When I suggested that Freud may have denied the work because he didn’t paint it, Navarro shrugged off the idea. Both Omar and his investigator became deeply suspicious of what Navarro called “the Freud environment”—the close group of experts, former assistants, biographers, and lawyers who guard his work, and its value—in London. “Nobody’s going to move,” Navarro said. “There is this kind of secret rule. You don’t go against the will of someone like Freud.”

In time, Omar’s file of paperwork relating to the painting grew thick, becoming—in the eyes of many art-world insiders—a problem in its own right. A New York-based art lawyer told me that he tunes out whenever people start talking about scientific reports relating to disputed art works. “You can tell when something doesn’t feel right,” another dealer said, of similar situations, “when someone so desperately wants something.” The art market can’t stand doubt. Great art should be simple, agreed-upon, and expensive: visceral to the eye and to the wallet. Truth is more important than facts. “The moment the story is elaborated, the boredom sets in,” Bacon once said, of complicated paintings. “The story talks louder than the paint.”

It didn’t help that Omar and Navarro were relative outsiders, with no track record of owning or researching Freud’s work. Some of their attempts to make headway were touching in their naïveté. Navarro called Scotland Yard and the F.B.I., to see if they had copies of Freud’s fingerprints that they would be willing to share. (The authorities declined.) Navarro was offended when experts seemed to skim through a dossier that he had prepared on the painting, or didn’t engage with his Muybridge theory.

One prominent European dealer, who went to see the painting at a private bank in Geneva, told me that he had misgivings as soon as he walked through the door. “I’m not an expert in Freud,” the dealer told me. “But I am an expert in situations.” “Standing Male Nude” was on an easel, next to another work from Omar’s collection, which the dealer believed was a reproduction.

“It was just a farce,” the dealer said. “Everybody was talking about millions of dollars. . . . And I was, like, What are we talking about? We shouldn’t be talking about money when we don’t even know what we have.” According to the dealer, Navarro seemed to think that it was up to the Freud estate to disprove the attribution, rather than up to him to provide any proof that this could be a Freud in the first place. “There was nothing to substantiate anything,” the dealer said. “I’m not doubting the good faith of everyone. But, basically, when you’re outside of the art world, you put the chariot before the cattle. I don’t know how you say it in English, but you do things backwards.”

During the meeting, the dealer called Ordovas, the former Christie’s expert, whom he knew, for her opinion. She told him that Freud had denied the work during his lifetime, which the dealer said was the end of the matter. Navarro told me that he thought the call was staged—a stunt designed to humiliate him and Omar—and he lost his temper. “I was a bit upset,” he said. He reminded the dealer of Obalk’s verdict, the A.I. report, and Eastaugh’s positive pigmentation analysis. “How can you say that? Do you have no respect for those experts? Who are you?” Navarro recalled saying.

The dealer softened and, according to Navarro, acknowledged, “Ça pue de Freud.” “It stinks of Freud.” (The dealer disputes Navarro’s account of the meeting.) But to what end? “Even if it was the case, there’s nothing I can do about it,” the dealer told me. According to Navarro, the dealer offered to send the painting to London again, to other experts that he knew, but there was a risk that it might be destroyed, or disfigured, in the process. “Come on,” Navarro said. “It’s a joke.”

More than a hundred and fifty years after art historians began certifying Old Master paintings (for a fee, of course), the rules for authenticating art works are the same as the rules for the rest of the art market: strict, scholarly, and undermined by human sin.

People talk about three pillars, or a triangle, of authentication: connoisseurship (What does it look like?), technical analysis (What is it made of?), and provenance (Where did it come from?). But in truth every major artist’s output is a fiefdom unto itself, with august gatekeepers and unwritten rules. There is no single authentication process. Some artists’ estates have a committee, made up of scholars and hangers-on, to evaluate possible works. Others have disbanded theirs, in part because of the risk of litigation from rich collectors. (Since 2012, committees for Andy Warhol, Roy Lichtenstein, Keith Haring, and Jean-Michel Basquiat have all stopped authenticating works.) Some artists have a single catalogue raisonné—a definitive record of all their work, typically in chronological order—which acts as the reference for their œuvre. Others have none. Modigliani has five, and they are all different.

Money makes everything worse. “You can have good people at the beginning. And then, you know, they begin to be influenced for some reason,” a Swiss lawyer who works in the field told me. At the top end of the market, the power to authenticate a Picasso, a Rothko, a Hepworth, is a lambent, magical thing. Often it comes to rest—by chance or by careful plotting—in the hands of two or three people. Preparing a catalogue raisonné is a project with its own unique rewards, risks, and access to privileged information. Dealers have been known to fund the research, in order to find out who owns an artist’s œuvre. Deciding what to include, and what to leave out, can have huge financial implications. One dealer described the responsibility as a kind of curse.

But the lure of being an authenticator is strong. Since the late nineties, Marc Restellini, a French curator and connoisseur, has been attempting to sort out the Modigliani mess. He began work on a sixth (and presumably final) catalogue raisonné with a research institute in France, funded by the Wildenstein family, the legendary Parisian art dealers.

In 2001, Restellini paused his work on Modigliani’s drawings after receiving death threats. I asked him recently whether the threats had come because he had been willing to include previously unrecognized works (which can drive down prices) or because he had taken out existing Modiglianis. “Out. Out. Out!” Restellini replied. For the past twenty-five years, he explained, his problem has been a catalogue raisonné first published by Ambrogio Ceroni, in 1958. The Ceroni catalogue has come to define the market for Modigliani (the most expensive Modigliani nude sold for a hundred and seventy million dollars) despite containing obvious omissions. Restellini believes that Ceroni also included forgeries and even touched up Modigliani’s paintings himself. (The catalogue’s publisher did not respond to a request for comment.) “The market for me is just mad,” he said. “Because they are in negation of the truth for just private and financial interest.”

It is unclear whether Restellini will ever set the record straight. Since 2020, he has been in litigation with the Wildenstein Plattner Institute over intellectual-property rights relating to the latest catalogue raisonné. Restellini is himself an art-world player. He has been a curator and an entrepreneur, as well as a scholar. He lends his name to a high-end art-analysis laboratory, the Institut Restellini-Investigation, in Geneva. He promised that his Modigliani-paintings catalogue will be published next year. I said that the project sounded like a nightmare. “Not so much,” he replied. “I think I am the nightmare of many people.”

Overturning an artist’s own verdict on a work—during his lifetime or after his death—is a tough move in a tough game. In France, the moral right of an artist to withdraw or deny his work is perpetual, and passed on to his heirs. Discarding art is an aesthetic gesture in itself, the inverse of the creative act. “Cutting up the paintings was always an act of liberation,” Gerhard Richter, the German artist, told the magazine Der Spiegel a few years ago. Richter is thought to have destroyed about sixty works from the early sixties, when he began to paint from photographs, that would now have an estimated value of six hundred million dollars. If an artist detests something he makes, particularly an early work or an experiment that failed, then the market tends to reflect that. “You wouldn’t want to own that, would you?” one dealer said. “If you could buy anything?”

But what about when artists lie, or muddy the waters for their own reasons? “I often paint fakes,” Picasso is said to have said. In the sixties, he was shown a photograph of “La Douleur,” a painting that he supposedly made in 1902 or 1903. Picasso described the work as a “joke by friends,” and it was ignored for decades in a storage room at the Metropolitan Museum of Art until it was definitively authenticated in 2010. In 1995, a New York appeals court overruled a judgment that a work by Balthus was a fake just because the artist said it was. At the age of eighty-three, Balthus had signed an affidavit saying that he was not blind and that “Colette de Profil,” a portrait from 1954, was a “faux manifeste.” But the court sided with the work’s former owner and an expert from the Met, who suggested that Balthus was trying to get back at his ex-wife, who had authenticated it in the first place.

Along with the moral and legal hazards, orphaned works are often difficult to identify because they are simply not that good. “It’s slapdash,” Gary Tinterow, a Met curator, told the Times, in 2010, of the authenticated Picasso. Talking to Freud experts, I noticed that even connoisseurs who were extremely disparaging about Omar’s painting often left the door open a tiny crack. “I saw a photo of this a year or two ago and assumed it’s a dud,” James Kirkman, one of Freud’s former dealers, told me in an e-mail. “One is capable of being proved wrong, I suppose,” Feaver said.

One day in February, I stopped by the Bacon estate, which occupies Bacon’s former studio, in Reece Mews, in Kensington. I was looking for evidence that Bacon spent time in Geneva. Until 2016, the Bacon estate had an authentication committee, which was chaired by Martin Harrison, the editor of Bacon’s five-volume catalogue raisonné. (The committee stopped meeting after the catalogue was published.) Like Freud, Bacon destroyed or abandoned hundreds of paintings during his career, many of which then escaped from his control one way or another. (Bacon’s studio was burgled three times; roughly a hundred canvases that had been slashed by Bacon survive.) When genuine works have resurfaced, Harrison has had no choice but to recognize them as such. “If I believe a work to be by Bacon, I have to say it,” he told me. “I wish it weren’t, in many ways. What am I going to do?”

Bacon and Freud scholars maintain a quietly bitchy relationship, and Harrison, who has a mischievous side, took an interest in Omar’s painting. “It doesn’t stop it being a Freud just because it’s not good,” he said. “I wouldn’t dismiss it.” In a recent biography of Bacon, the American art writers Annalyn Swan and Mark Stevens suggested that he made short trips to Switzerland in the seventies, likely to collect money from a Swiss bank account. Harrison invited me to look at one of Bacon’s two passports for the period. I found only a few Swiss border stamps, from Basel, in 1969 and 1976.

Harrison thought that Omar’s painting was competently done. “Some of the Bacons that I had to reproduce were much more negligible than this,” he said. In the room where Bacon used to paint, Sophie Pretorius, who manages the estate’s archive, magnified an image of “Standing Male Nude” on her computer. “I just don’t think the body is right,” she said. “There’s no distortion.” Harrison looked again. “It looks like somebody else,” he agreed. “But who on earth is somebody else?” Harrison said he thought the painting had a thirteen-per-cent chance of being by Lucian Freud. I couldn’t tell if he was teasing.

The perils of the authentication process, and the slim chance of extreme rewards, mean that some quests never end. Eastaugh, the pigmentation expert, told me that he sees it a lot: the bulging file, the flights from one European city to another, the latest invoice for a round of bomb-pulse radiocarbon dating. It’s usually a campaign carried on by men and, when they die, Eastaugh observed, continued by their daughters. At a certain point, it stops being about the painting and becomes a search for deeper, and even more impossible, forms of validation. Owning a work made by a genius induces a feeling of connection—to something pure, and, perhaps, to the purer part of ourselves.

“The obsessive desire to prove parentage is quite a strong psychological state of mind,” Feaver remarked. “Isn’t it?”

Seven years ago, Richard Polsky, a former Warhol dealer, set up his own art-authentication business. He quoted a Talmudic idea to describe an elision of identity that can take place between owners and their unproven masterpieces: “We don’t see things as they are, we see things as we are.” (Polsky’s life has also been threatened, over a fake Basquiat). “When you make money, you feel smart. It’s as simple as that,” he told me. “It does sort of justify who you are as a person—‘I’m a smart person, I made a good decision. I saw something others didn’t see.’ ” Uncomfortably, the reverse is also true. Finding out that you didn’t, in fact, buy a priceless art work from a bankruptcy auction can raise troubling questions about whom you imagine yourself to be.

When I first met Omar, over lunch in Geneva, I asked him why he didn’t just try to sell the painting in its disputed state, and let someone else take on the problem. He made it clear that this wasn’t an option. “It is a battle,” he replied.

“I think it’s about personal ego,” Navarro chimed in across the table, indicating a degree of association that now existed between his client and one of the greatest twentieth-century artists. “I think he has a personal feeling, or he wants to prove to himself that he can go over this decision by Freud.”

There is no Freud authentication committee. In 2013, the Freud archive appointed Catherine Lampert, a curator and historian, who knew Freud, and Toby Treves, a former curator of twentieth-century British art at Tate, to write his catalogue raisonné. The first catalogue, of Freud’s prints, was published in the spring. A second catalogue, of about five hundred paintings, will appear next year

In May, I visited Treves at his home, in West London. Although Omar and Navarro had not formally submitted “Standing Male Nude” for the catalogue raisonné, Treves had seen an image of the painting in an article in The Observer, last year. “I don’t need to see it again,” he said. “If we put that painting in a line with all the other paintings that he made from 1939 to 2011, I think pretty much everyone would think, That looks like the odd one out.” The selection for the Freud catalogue raisonné was practically complete. “The criteria is certainty,” Treves explained. “And, if we’re not certain, then that’s it.”

Treves acknowledged Freud’s unpredictable behavior toward attribution during his lifetime. “Freud was an extremely knowing individual,” he said. “And he knows about mythmaking.” But Treves also observed that Freud’s artistic output was well documented. He had the same studio assistant, David Dawson, for the last twenty years of his life. He worked extremely slowly, usually on three portraits at a time, and was fairly static, making almost all his paintings in London. During nine years of research, Treves and Lampert turned up only four small paintings that they previously hadn’t seen, and three belonged to the family of one of Freud’s lovers. “People doing these projects would love to find a new work,” Treves said. “That really is finding a new poem by Keats.” But he added that the chances of discovering a major portrait at this stage were almost nonexistent. “I very much doubt it,” he said. “What you may find is unfinished, abandoned paintings. . . . That’s definitely happened.”

In 1997, the year that Omar bought his nude, a creative director named Jon Lys Turner inherited another painting attributed to Freud which the artist had denied. Turner’s portrait, of a young man in a black cravat, belonged for many years to Denis Wirth-Miller, a bohemian landscape painter. Wirth-Miller and his partner, Richard (Dicky) Chopping, were among Francis Bacon’s closest friends. But they couldn’t stand Freud. Freud called Wirth-Miller Worth-Nothing; Chopping kept a handwritten list of reasons he hated Freud. Turner recalled that Wirth-Miller had left the painting to him with a specific instruction: “I want it sold as loudly as possible to really upset Lucian.”

But it wasn’t as straightforward as that. In 1985, Christie’s had accepted the painting for an upcoming auction, only for Freud to reject the attribution. The reason appeared to be spite. Wirth-Miller and Freud had studied together at the East Anglian School of Painting and Drawing, in Suffolk, during the Second World War, and Wirth-Miller had owned the canvas since then. Like Omar, Turner found the task of overturning Freud’s repudiation virtually impossible. Polite phone calls went nowhere. “They said, ‘O.K., we’ll get back to you,’ ” Turner said. “Tumbleweed.”

As Freud’s fame grew—and his prices rose—Turner’s relationship with the painting became uncomfortably charged. “It’s a lot like going through hell as you go through one recession after another. I used to think to myself, Imagine if this is a Freud,” he said. “Imagine if this is worth lots of money.” Unlike Omar, however, Turner was close enough to the London art market to be sensitive to its unspoken codes. “A lot of people were frightened of him and they weren’t going to go against him,” he said, of Freud. “I am a sole individual who goes into a big auction house. Which side is that auction house going to take?”

In 2015, the producers of a BBC arts program, “Fake or Fortune?,” agreed to investigate Turner’s painting for the show. “I was full of trepidation,” Turner said. “I also knew that, at the end of it, if I did that myself, I will get nowhere.” During filming, Diana Rawstron, Freud’s lawyer, revealed a note from a phone call with Freud, in which he acknowledged starting Turner’s painting. Technical analysis of the canvas, paint, and brushstrokes suggested strongly that the work had been completed by a single hand. In 2019, Treves and Lampert agreed to include Turner’s portrait in the catalogue raisonné, as an unfinished painting.

Three years later, Turner’s Freud remains unsold. He waited for the publicity around the TV show to fade and then offered to use it to endow a scholarship at an art school. But the conversations did not progress. A couple of curators asked to borrow the painting for exhibitions, but, similarly, did not follow through. When we met, Turner did not want to think about why. “I have got no evidence, no evidence for anything, but it is history repeating itself,” he said. He wondered how the painting would be received by Freud’s circle if he put it on the open market. “I’m still the outsider,” Turner said. “Let’s face it. . . . They must hate me, because I did what they didn’t want. I won.”

You carry on, because what else can you do? In November, 2021, Omar and Navarro escalated their campaign, sending “Standing Male Nude” to the laboratory of Marc Restellini, the scourge of the Modigliani market. The Institut Restellini charges up to thirty thousand euros to examine an art work. A specific type of carbon dating that has been recently applied to twentieth-century canvases allows them to be dated to within a couple of years. According to the Institut Restellini, the canvas of Omar’s painting dated from the early fifties, which ruled out a recent forgery. In May, Navarro told me that Omar had unearthed a second witness, based in Italy, who could also attest to Bacon spending time in Geneva in the seventies. “Excellent news are on track and should be confirmed soon,” Navarro texted.

The longing is infectious. One day, I remembered something that Harrison had said, at the Bacon estate. A few years ago, he was sent a group of supposed Bacons, which had originated in Sweden. He came to the conclusion that they weren’t fakes, as such, but had probably been made by an art student in the sixties or seventies, who had fallen under Bacon’s influence; the paintings had later been mistaken for the real thing. I wondered if the same thing might have happened with Omar’s nude. Freud supervised students sporadically throughout his career—at the Slade, in London, and, in the autumn of 1964, at the Norwich School of Art.

I tracked down Roger James Elsgood, a radio producer in his seventies, who was one of five students taught by Freud in Norwich. One morning, in the spring, we met at the Royal Academy of Arts, on Piccadilly. There was a major Bacon show on display, which included “Two Figures”—the masterpiece that had hung in Freud’s bedroom—complete with an image of the Muybridge reference on the wall next to it. Elsgood didn’t think that Omar’s painting could have been done by a student. “It’s a relatively mature work by a very middling figurative painter,” he said. “They were ten a penny.” Then he brought out his phone. He wanted to show me a painting that his wife, Jan, had bought in the late sixties, from Ken Brazier, an artist whom Freud painted in 1957. Elsgood had begun to think that maybe they owned a Freud, too. “Of course, when you start to wonder, you start to think, Well, we’re rich,” he said. He was thinking about looking into it.

The painting was on display in a conference room at Omar’s lawyers’ offices, in the middle of town. It rested on a stand in an alcove. Omar had put the portrait in an elaborate gilt frame, which was distracting. Up close, I was struck by the painting’s tidy correctness. The figure looked away. The patch of impasto on the flank was the artist’s only real flourish. The previous day, I had been to a small show of Freud’s paintings at the Freud Museum, the London home of Sigmund, and all the works there had seemed to possess more complexity, more problems, more life. “Everything is fought over,” Feaver said, of Freud’s work. A home video at the exhibition had showed the artist, in his late teens and wearing a suit, performing somersaults in Sigmund’s garden.

Moreno, the witness who remembered the painting and Francis Bacon from the late seventies, was also at the meeting. He wore a Panama hat, silver reflective sunglasses, and sneakers covered with rhinestones. He said that he first met Bacon at La Garçonnière, a disco bar. Moreno seemed totally plausible as someone who might have partied with Bacon almost fifty years ago. He said that Bacon loved Geneva, because of the anonymity and because it was the place where he first met Sophia Loren. (Her manager confirmed this.) “He saw that people looked at her in the street and no one bothered her,” Moreno told me. “He thought, I can do my private life here.” At the same time, there were gaps, and oddities, in Moreno’s account. He claimed to have owned a Bacon painting, and later sent me a video of “Head,” a Bacon work from 1962, whose recent owner said that the assertion was impossible. Moreno told me that he once had a photograph of Bacon in Geneva, but that it might have been lost in a flood. At one point, for complicated reasons, he showed me a pornographic video on his phone.

The margins of the multibillion-dollar art market are a bewildering place. You are touching immortality, or you are touching nothing at all. A few weeks after the meeting, Omar and Navarro fell out, over Omar’s plans to sell the painting and Navarro’s role in the process. (Neither man wanted to talk about the details, for legal reasons.) In the conference room, there was an intoxicating, disorienting atmosphere. I found myself doubting everything except the fact of the painting resting against the wall. When Navarro started talking about his own forays as an artist, I even had the bizarre thought that maybe he had painted it, or his father, who, as Navarro said, liked to make copies.

Across the table, Omar beamed. “I am proud to say I am the owner of a Freud,” he said. He repeated his offer to the estate, and to the authors of the catalogue raisonné, to come and see “Standing Male Nude” for themselves. “It’s like saying you don’t like an orange,” he said. “And yet you have never tasted one.” 






Sotheby’s to sell $70m of art stored at MoMA to

benefit New York museum’s digital initiatives




Francis Bacon triptych and Renoir still life among works from the collection of CBS founder

William S. Paley that have been under the museum’s stewardship since his death






Around 30 works from the collection of the late Columbia Broadcasting System (CBS) founder William S. Paley, which have been on loan to the Museum of Modern Art in New York (MoMA) since his death in 1990, will come to auction this autumn at Sotheby’s sales in London and New York.

Consigned by Paley’s foundation, these works come from an 81-piece-strong trove that was placed under MoMA’s stewardship; Paley served as the museums chairman and president during his lifetime. They were loaned with the understanding that both the museum and foundation could determine “how these works could best be used to serve the public and the changing needs of the institution”, according to a MoMA press release that announced the forthcoming sale. Accordingly, much of the sales’ proceeds will go toward establishing an endowment for digital media and technology at MoMA, as well as towards the museum’s “new strategic acquisitions”.

The works carry a combined estimate of $70m to $100m. Top lots offered in New York’s Marquee evening sales on 14 November include Pablo PicassoGuitare sur une table (1919), estimated between $20m to $30m and Renoirs fruity canvas Les Fraises (1905) (est $3m-$4m).

And Sotheby’s contemporary art evening sale on 14 October during Frieze Week in London will be headlined by Francis Bacon’s intimately sized triptych Three Studies for Portrait of Henrietta Moraes, (1963), estimated in excess of £30 million. This is the first time the work has come to market since Paley purchased it from Marlborough Gallery in 1963, according to a Sotheby’s statement. Many of these works were until recently considered off limits for selling, Sotheby’s chairman Brooke Lampley tells The Wall Street Journal.

As the works were never officially in the collection of MoMA, but rather under its stewardship, the sale cannot be considered an instance of deaccessioning.   

This is the first time that works from Paley Foundation’s collection have been sold since being loaned to the MoMA. Since Paley’s death they have been the subject of two travelling exhibitions. One in 1992, and the other between 2012 to 2014.





                                                                                                           Francis Bacon’s Three Studies for Portrait of Henrietta Moraes, (1963)






‘We bring Korean art to another level’ 

President of Christie’s Asia Pacific






When Korean contemporary artist Kim Whan-ki’s masterpiece “05-IV-71#200 (Universe)” fetched 13.2 billion won ($9.6 million) as a highlight of the Christie’s autumn auction season in 2019, it became the highest-ever price for a Korean artwork sold at an auction house. The record remains unbeaten.

The record sale has attracted attention to the late artist from home and abroad. Kim is a pioneer of Korean abstract paintings that feature lines and dots with colors reminiscent of the ocean around his hometown, located at the southwestern tip of the Korean Peninsula.

“There are many (Korean) artists of which we have established world records, from Kim Soo-ja to Kim Tschang-yeul. Interestingly, we have seen a fairly high number of records in the past seasons. This season in May in Hong Kong, we broke 35 records of artists in total, of which four are Korean (artists). There is a strong belief in Korean art,” said Francis Belin, president of Christie’s Asia Pacific during an interview with The Korea Herald on Wednesday in Seoul.

“What we bring is the global stage to Korean art. We bring global attention when we put Korean art into our sale, because we put them along other very prominent artists — whether they are modern artists or contemporary artists. This is where we see our contribution to the Korean art market, which is giving it an international platform, not domestic one which is very well-structured and very active,” he said.

Belin arrived in Seoul two weeks ago, ahead of the Frieze Seoul opening on Friday, to showcase the exhibition “Flesh and Soul: Bacon/Ghenie” at Boon the Shop in southern Seoul, which brought together 16 works by Francis Bacon and Adrian Ghenie — works to which Koreans have not been widely exposed.

The three-day exhibition that opened on Saturday went viral on social media and the reservation roster of 1,000 people filled quickly as soon as it opened on Sept. 2. The works in total are worth more than $440 million, according to Christie’s.

“It was the first time that these two artists were put together, and no institutions have done it. The reason why we do this is because a lot of galleries are coming to town, and a lot of things are going to happen here (coinciding with Frieze Seoul),” Belin said. “It is an amazing moment for Seoul, and we wanted to do something very unique. This is also a way to start a conversation with our clients.

Christie’s has been one of the forerunners in the international auction scene in Seoul, opening its office in the capital in 1995. Since its opening, there has been steady development in the South Korean market. Over the past two years, there has been a clear acceleration, and expansion of the office is under consideration, Belin said.

“The Korean market is increasingly important for us. In the past few seasons, we have seen a very strong uptake (of Korean collectors),” he said. “We are constantly looking at our real estate footprint in Seoul.

Young collectors are growing — particularly in the Asian markets, including South Korea. While some people are skeptical of the sustainability of the Hong Kong market, Belin said the art market is still strong and that people need to see the Asian art market as a “growing pie” rather than a “zero-sum game.” Christie’s has signed a 10-year lease for a new Asia Pacific headquarters at The Henderson in Hong Kong, which will open in 2024.

South Korea’s art market has a “strong ecosystem” involved by a variety of stakeholders in the art scene – art institutes for academic aspects and galleries and auction houses on the commercial sides, growing collectors and great artists, he said.

When asked about the recent infighting between local galleries and auction houses in the country, Belin said that tension between the primary and secondary markets could happen in any region, but it should be a “healthy competition,” as they are all intertwined together to create an ecosystem of the art world.

“Galleries are our clients too. They may sell with Christie’s or they may buy with Christie’s. We must respect our clients. It’s really important to create a successful ecosystem of the stake holders, and we are small part of it. Is one more important than the other? No, they are all important,” he said.






                                       Francis Bacon Study for Portrait II 1953






 Francis Bacon  










Five of the ten portrait paintings in this Francis Bacon exhibition, “Faces & Figures,” were studies, indicating that they may have been works in progress. The artist’s hyperactive, agitated brushstrokes seem to imply that a person’s true essence can never be definitively nailed down. Thus, Bacon (1909–1992) offers us Three Studies for Portrait of George Dyer (on light ground), 1964, bizarre embryonic renderings of his burglar lover (who committed suicide in 1971), and Three Studies for a Portrait, 1976, a visceral excavation of some unknown soul with disagreeably wormlike lips. The show also included Study of Henrietta Moraes Laughing, 1969, a depiction of the famously hedonistic bon vivant, who seems to be morbidly grimacing rather than happily giggling—a rather unflattering picture of a close friend. Also featured were full-body illustrations, such as Seated Woman, 1961, in which a woefully twisted being rests uncomfortably on an ungainly gray thing that appears to be carved from stone, and Figure in Movement, 1972, a portrayal of a man who casts a pitch-black shadow that contrasts irreconcilably with the bright-yellow space of its surroundings. Bacon’s imagery is indebted to film, as he acknowledged, and possesses a certain melodramatic flair. All of these works are masterpieces of their kind; but what was Bacon trying to master?

The artist’s canvases contain only excruciating pain and unrelieved suffering, as the relentless blackness that surrounds many of his figures makes clear. His harshly rendered, grotesquely distorted subjects, often fragmented to the extent of being dehumanized, are monstrous creatures, tormented in hells of their own making. Their bodies and faces are frequently patchworks of conflicting colors and shapes, further marred by streaks of darkness recalling scars and pus-like eruptions of white, the latter of which convey a sickness unto death. The figures are both Manneristically distorted and expressionistically destructive—actors in some bloody theater of the absurd. None of Bacon’s models seem capable of cracking a smile—to do so would go against the grain of their steadfast ugliness. As art historian Stephen Eric Bronner once stated, these faces are “bursting the objective barriers that constrain the subjectivity of the subject,” achieving an objective he claimed was the goal of all expressionistic painting. So I wonder: Does this aspect of Bacon’s work make it existentially authentic? Or, rather, is denying his vulnerable human subjects the “promesse du bonheur,” per Stendhal, a terrible injustice?

 “Everywhere and at all times the portrait was a school of objectivity,” wrote art historian Max J. Friedländer—but in modernity it has become a school of subjectivity. All of Bacon’s people convey a sense of what psychoanalyst Erich Fromm felicitously called “vital impotence,” which he said is indicative of “psychical ‘crippledness.’” Bacon’s people are as emotionally incapacitated as Bacon himself was: The man was notorious for his uncontrollable destructiveness, someone whose particular brand of love almost always led to ruin. Psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott noted that the painter’s depictions of his subjects’ faces were “distorted significantly,” arguing that their hideousness indicated the artist’s “painful striving towards being seen,” or the need to be empathetically mirrored, a desire that can persist throughout life. Bacon was a shy child with an effeminate manner, a trait that angered his manic-depressive father, a breeder of horses who had his son whipped by stable hands in his employ. Is Bacon projecting this experience of paternal violence onto his subjects, mercilessly brutalizing them as his father had brutalized him? “The past is never dead,” as William Faulkner said. Perhaps more to the emotional point of the individuals Bacon portrays is that they are all wracked by pain, as he was his entire life—the most broken of souls, lost and isolated.

Donald Kuspit





             Francis Bacon, Figure in Movement, 1972, oil and dry-transfer lettering on canvas, 78 × 58".






Arts & Culture shine in new season on RTÉ






RTÉ’s new season puts Irish culture, creativity and talent centre stage, with a number of major new documentaries from the Arts & Culture team alongside several major stand-alone cultural events and the return of a number of old favourites.The season was launched at an event in Dublin’s RDS, featuring a show-stopping performance from singer Tolü Makay, who features in the forthcoming RTÉ documentary A Note for Nature.

Highlights include fresh takes on the lives of Francis Bacon and Lady Gregory, deep dives into Irish culture, landscape and familial bonds from the likes of Tommy Tiernan, Sebastian Barry and Colm Toibin, new writing from the cream of the nation’s authors and an array of homegrown musical talent across every imaginable genre.


Francis Bacon: The Outsider

A new diary reveals an unrecorded chapter in Francis Bacon’s life. U2’s Adam Clayton, a huge admirer of the artist, retraces a trip Bacon took to Ireland in 1929, with his new friend and diarist, Eric Allden, painting a fresh picture of Bacon’s relationship with the land of his birth.






                                                                                                          Adam Clayton hosts The Outsider







Christie’s and HomeArt Bring Seminal Works by

Bacon and Ghenie to Seoul for the First Time







Even though artists Francis Bacon and Adrian Ghenie are generations apart, their works possess a haunting similarity. Inspired by the human condition, they are united in the exploration of the deepest, darkest parts of humanity. Each with their own unique style and technique brings to life the raw images that speak about violence, nightmares, and the darkest facets that, for most, are better left in the dark.

This September, Christie’s and HomeArt will highlight the artists’ commonalities and differences in the museum-quality exhibition entitled Flesh and Soul: Bacon/Ghenie at BOONTHESHOP – Cheongdam in Seoul, South Korea. The not-for-auction exhibition will feature the 16 most renowned works by two artists priced at over US$440 million.

Private demons and the angsts of post-war Europe come together in Francis Bacon’s eerie, ghoulish figurative paintings. Inspired by history and his often personal volatile relationships with sitters, the artist has produced images that speak about the primal fear that is in all of us. Standing as a silent and unflinching witness of humanity’s daemons, he created images featuring crucifixes, distorted bodies imprisoned inside claustrophobia – inducing settings, and portraits of howling faces begging for release. About his ultimate goal, Bacon said:

 “I would like someday to trap a moment of life in its full violence, its full beauty. That would be the ultimate painting.”

Romanian painter Adrian Ghenie is best known for dark and disturbing images inspired by European history. Over time, what started as an exploration of personal daemons and the unconscious mind has evolved and become a journey into collective and shared traumas. In his work, the artist sheds light on the darker parts of history, such as the eugenics of WWII German physician Josef Mengele, communism, and genocide, in hopes of bringing forth feelings of desire, vulnerability, and frustration.

Flesh and Soul: Bacon/Ghenie will showcase some of the artists’ most iconic motifs side by side and thus bring all similarities and differences into a sharp focus. From Bacon’s Papal SeriesStudy for Portrait II and Study for a Pope I will be shown alongside Ghenie’s Lidless Eye and The Collector 3.

Papal Series was inspired by the work of Spanish artist Diego Velázquez entitled Portrait of Innocent X., which features the portrait of Pope Innocent X sitting in a throne-like gilded chair. Bacon reinterpreted the stern-faced image into a dramatic, dark, and sinister composition that alludes to the chaotic modern age.

Ghenie’s work Lidless Eye, inspired by Van Gogh’s s Self Portrait (1889), investigates how memories of the past influence the future. The chiaroscuro drips and pours and scraped surfaces come together in the artist’s paintings to create decay and fluidity within a single composition.

The exhibition aims to encourage public dialogue around art and foster cultural exchange. It is one of a kind opportunity to see together works by the two most distinguished artists. Elaine Holt, Deputy Chairman, and International Director, Christie’s Asia Pacific, said:

“Curating their work side-by-side opens a window into the heart of a myriad of themes - love and intimacy, power and oppression, cultural icons, and the tropes of war.”

Exhibition Flesh and Soul: Bacon/Ghenie will be on view BOONTHESHOP – Cheongdam in Seoul from September 3rd until September 5th, 2022.









John L. Eastman, McCartney’s Lawyer in Beatles’ Strife, Dies at 83




An entertainment attorney for high-profile clients, he was central to a battle over control of the Beatles’

business empire in the last days of the band.






An entertainment attorney for high-profile clients, he was central to a battle over control of the Beatles’ business empire in the last days of the band.

John L. Eastman, a lawyer for musicians and artists whose representation of famous clients like Paul McCartney, Billy Joel and Willem de Kooning made him a force in the entertainment world, and who played a key part in a power struggle over the control of the Beatles’ business in the last days of the band, died on Aug. 10 in East Hampton, N.Y. He was 83.

The cause was pancreatic cancer, said his son Lee, a partner in their longstanding family firm, Eastman & Eastman in Manhattan.

Mr. Eastman and his father, who was also named Lee, worked with a long roster of big-name clients over the years, including Andrew Lloyd Webber, David Bowie, Elton John and the estates of Tennessee Williams and the painter Francis Bacon. But of all of them, the lawyers were most closely associated with Mr. McCartney, whom Mr. Eastman represented for more than 50 years.

Their connection was both professional and personal. Mr. Eastman was the brother of Linda McCartney, Mr. McCartney’s first wife, and Lee was her father.

The Eastmans became involved in the fight over the Beatles’ business empire in early 1969. Mr. McCartney had hired the Eastmans, father and son, to be his representatives and tried to persuade his three bandmates to put them in charge of the group’s affairs. Despite their enormous success, the Beatles were then on the brink of insolvency.

But John Lennon and the other Beatles had selected another New Yorker to manage the group: Allen Klein, who had worked with Sam Cooke and the Rolling Stones. Mr. Klein had a reputation as a ferocious negotiator and, as Mick Jagger once described him, a “gangster figure”  — the opposite of the refined Eastmans, whose townhouse office in Manhattan was lined with museum-quality paintings by de Kooning and others.

The conflict between Mr. Klein and the Eastmans, and the disagreement within the group over those men, would consume the Beatles for years to come, even after their official breakup in 1970.

To break Mr. Klein’s grip over the band, and to secure Mr. McCartney’s independence, Mr. Eastman masterminded a lawsuit, filed in London on Dec. 31, 1970, to dissolve the Beatles’ partnership agreement. As part of their preparations for the case, Mr. Eastman suggested that his brother-in-law wear a suit and tie to court. Mr. McCartney half-complied: He appeared in a suit, but no tie.

The other Beatles responded to the lawsuit in frustration. “I still cannot understand why Paul acted as he did,” George Harrison said in an affidavit. In March 1971, the judge ruled in Mr. McCartney’s favor, appointing a receiver for the Beatles’ business interests until the dissolution of their partnership could be negotiated, which came several years later.

Early in their work with Mr. McCartney, the Eastmans helped him set up what would become MPL Communications, his entertainment company. It owns many valuable copyrights, including the music publishing rights to songs by Buddy Holly, Fats Waller and Carl Perkins and from hit Broadway shows like “Annie” and “Grease.”

With the Eastmans’ guidance, Mr. McCartney also acquired ownership of all of his recordings and songwriting rights since the breakup of the Beatles. Lee Eastman died in 1991, and Linda McCartney died in 1998.

In 2017, Mr. Eastman steered a lawsuit by Mr. McCartney against Sony/ATV, the music publisher (now known as Sony Music Publishing), to regain his share of the United States copyrights in Beatles songs that he wrote with Mr. Lennon, citing an amendment to federal law that allows creators to recapture those rights after set periods. The case was settled; the terms were not disclosed, but Mr. McCartney has been registering the American ownership of those rights under MPL

“John was a great man,” Mr. McCartney wrote on Twitter last week, along with a photo of him with Mr. Eastman in yoga poses. “Not only did he help me massively in my business dealings as my lawyer but as a friend he was hard to beat.”

John Lindner Eastman was born on July 10, 1939, in Manhattan, and grew up in Scarsdale, N.Y., the eldest of four children of Lee and Louise Lindner Eastman. His mother had inherited a fortune from the Lindner department store in Cleveland.

His father, who had changed his name from Leopold Epstein, set up a successful legal practice representing high-profile musicians, artists and writers, among them the bandleader Tommy Dorsey and the songwriters Harold Arlen and Hal David.

John Eastman graduated from Stanford University in 1961 and from the New York University School of Law in 1964. The next year, after briefly working in the office of the United States attorney for the Eastern District of New York, he and his father set up Eastman & Eastman.

They developed a specialty in working with pop musicians whose business had suffered under previous representatives. Aside from Mr. McCartney, they were best known for working with Mr. Joel in the late 1980s and early ’90s, when he sued his former manager and lawyer. The case was settled, and the Eastmans helped Mr. Joel rebuild his business

“He was fierce when it came to protecting artists’ rights,” Mr. Joel said in a statement to The New York Times, “and I credit him with whatever longevity I have achieved in my career.”

Mr. Eastman served on the boards of a number of prominent organizations, including the American Museum of Natural History, and two music groups, the National Music Publishers’ Association and the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers, known as ASCAP.

In addition to his son Lee, he is survived by his wife, Josephine; another son, Jay; a daughter, Louise; two sisters, Louise Weed and Laura Malcolm; and 11 grandchildren.






Francis Bacon to be celebrated at Heritage


Arts Festival in Laois town this week   







The life of internationally renowned Irish artist Francis Bacon is being celebrated in Abbeyleix next week.

The Abbeyleix Heritage Arts Festival will run from August 12 to 14 with a marvellous line-up of music, exhibitions, workshops, and much more centred around the life and times of Bacon.

Francis Bacon was born in a nursing home at 63 Lower Baggot Street, Dublin on the 28th October 1909. He was the second of five children born to English parents who had recently settled in Ireland, but had no Irish blood ties. His father Anthony Edward ‘Eddy’ Mortimer Bacon, was a retired Army Major. His mother was Christian Winifred Loxley.

The Bacon family moved between various country houses in counties Laois and Kildare and, for shorter stays, to England. As his home life was chilly and fraught with his father, Bacon developed a close relationship with his maternal grandmother, Winifred Margaret Supple who disliked Bacon’s father.

Her house near Abbeyleix contained bow-ended rooms that would be echoed in the backdrops of Bacon’s paintings as a result of living with her  for sometime — hence his love affair with Laois began, seen through his expressionism and surrealism influenced art.

Festival organiser Andy Ring said, “Bacon was an Irish-born British figurative painter known for his raw, unsettling imagery but he developed deep regard and fondness for Laois as his grandmother Winifred Supple lived here. She and the county became an ongoing influence in his life until his death in 1992 in Spain.

“The Festival organisers decided the time was long overdue to celebrate Bacon’s life and his times here in Laois along with that of one of the most famous sculptors, Launt Thompson.

“Many of his works are now housed in the Smithsonian American Museum of Art in Washington DC.”

The sculptor left Abbeyleix as a teenager during the Famine with his widowed mother and became one of the United States’ most sought after sculptors. They settled in the Albany, New York area. Thompson was one of the most important post-Civil War sculptors in America, who exhibited in France and Italy who died in obscurity and was  buried in an unmarked grave until recently.

Music over the three day festival will be held in Morrissey’s Pub and includes the bands Beats Working, Abbeyfolk, Revelation and Brian Kileen.

All proceeds from the Festival go to Laois Down Syndrome Laois — Abbeyleix Field of Dreams. It is kindly sponsored by Morrissey’s Pub in Abbeyleix, one of the oldest and most iconic pubs in Ireland which has been in existence since 1775. All artists have been asked to give 25 per cent of everything they sell to charity.

Mr Ring added, “While we want to celebrate Bacon’s and Launt’s links to Abbeyleix we want to also champion those in our community who live with intellectual difficulties and that is why all funds from the Festival will be donated to Laois Down Syndrome and their project Field of Dreams.”

The charity’s goal is to establish an Employment Training Centre of Excellence called the Laois Field of Dreams in Abbeyleix. They aim to continue their cradle to grave philosophy  and help complete the life cycle of those who live with an intellectual difficulty.

The charity has secured four acres of land from Laois County Council and are currently drawing up plans to develop the site to accommodate members with an intellectual difficulty in the county. The planned service aims to get those helped by the charity to have less reliance on Day Services and move them into the community in a very practical way through inclusion and integration into society and the community.






Denis Wirth-Miller show to launch at Firstsite Colchester







A MAJOR new exhibition will revisit the work of a Colchester artist whose work was once acquired by the Queen. Before his death in Colchester aged 94, Denis Wirth-Miller’s art had been shown in London’s leading galleries and owned by the Her Majesty.

The self-taught painter was both a friend and collaborator with famed artist Francis Bacon, but following an explosive disagreement with Bacon, Wirth-Miller ended his career in painting in 1977. Now, in the largest retrospective of his work to date, Firstsite, in Lewis Gardens, Colchester, will display more than one hundred paintings by the influential artist.

The exhibition is curated by the renowned writer and curator James Birch, who has secured key loans from a variety of sources to give visitors a chance to view pieces never before been seen in public

Many artworks are from private collections, including more than 70 never shown and important artworks from Jon Lys Turner, the holder of Denis and Dickie’s personal archive and author of their biography, The Visitors’ Book.

Wirth-Miller was born in 1915 in Folkestone, Kent but, having met his partner-to-be Richard Chopping in London, he would later move to Wivenhoe in 2005. The couple became the first in Colchester to solemnify their relationship with a civil partnership in December of that year.

“It’s a great honour to be able to draw attention to an often overlooked and talented artist who loved and depicted this area with such vibrancy,” said Firstsite director Sally Shaw. “The show will examine how Wirth-Miller and Bacon collaborated together.

“This can been seen in the style and techniques used in some artworks –showing how powerful it can be when people are creative together.” While living in Wivenhoe simultaneously, Wirth-Miller and Bacon would share a studio and often contributed to each other’s work, however, theirs was a tempestuous relationship.

After his 1977 exhibition, following a public spat with Bacon, Denis destroyed his own pictures and virtually gave up painting. James Birch added: “[Denis’] work captures the magic of this country’s landscapes, especially the Essex marshes and fields, and deserves to be much more well-known in its own right”.






                                                              Francis Bacon, Reinhard Hassert and Denis Wirth-Miller in Paris, November 1983






The well of happiness – and despair:

Queer St Ives reviewed




The town in the 1950s was a crucible of gay artistic life, as painters,

sculptors, playwrights and actors flocked to it






In the winter of 1952 the 21-year-old sculptor John Milne travelled to St Ives in Cornwall to take up a temporary job as an assistant to Barbara Hepworth. The arrangement was that he would become her pupil in exchange for helping her in the studio, but he was subsequently paid a small salary and ended up staying in her employ for two years. By this time, Milne had decided to settle in the town, which had become a thriving modernist artists’ colony, and in 1956 he acquired Trewyn House, a three-storey Victorian property next door to Hepworth’s studio. The reason a working-class boy from Eccles could afford so substantial a house was that it had in fact been bought for him by Cosmo Rodewald, a very wealthy American-born academic 16 years his senior who was also a collector of contemporary art. The two men had met and become lovers in 1951, and although Rodewald found the man who would become his life partner some four years later, he remained Milne’s close friend and patron.

Milne decided to run Trewyn as ‘a guesthouse for painters, sculptors, and people generally connected with the arts’, and visitors included Francis Bacon, Patrick Procktor, Keith Vaughan, Noël Coward, John Schlesinger and Lindsay Anderson. Some were merely holidaymakers, but despite finding the town ‘a stronghold of really dreary abstract stuff’ and having a tooth knocked out by his boyfriend during an altercation with locals outside the Sloop Inn, Bacon rented a studio in St Ives and produced 13 paintings while there. A woman brought up in the town later recalled that it wasn’t until she moved to London that she realised homosexuality was not universally accepted.

Another regular visitor was a flamboyant young layabout called Julian Nixon, who helped run the guesthouse, becoming a talented cook ‘of the Fanny Cradock type’. Nixon joins Milne and Hepworth as the third principal player in Ian Massey’s beguiling account of what Tatler in 1958 dubbed ‘Le Quartier St Ives’. Four years earlier, Nixon had been one of a group of 15 men found guilty of ‘gross indecency’ in a notorious trial at the Somerset Assizes, but he had escaped a prison sentence, being instead bound over on condition he spent 12 months in a psychiatric hospital.

The ‘treatment’ he received proved unavailing, and after his release he took up with a succession of older men, notably Richard Blake Brown, a dandified clergyman and the prolific author of such novels as Bright Glades, My Aunt in Pink and A Broth of a Boy. It was because of this last book that Brown nicknamed the wayward Nixon ‘Brothy’, and in spite of severe provocation he remained devoted to him. Nixon left St Ives in 1965, heavily in debt, but reappeared in Milne’s life five years later when he attempted to take him to court, claiming damages of £10,000 for the ‘alienation of affection’ of a young man the sculptor had employed as a gardener.

Meanwhile, Milne had continued to pursue his vocation, but turned in the mid-1960s from carving to casting and produced many drawings. He had been advised to use drawing as a way of dealing with his frequent nightmares while undergoing Jungian therapy as a teenager, and this became a lifetime’s practice. These drawings, Massey observes, were ‘abstract expressions of his inner life that, in contrast to the formal containment and smooth surfaces of much of his mature sculpture, read as maps of his state of mind’. Hepworth remained a major influence, but whereas her work had a strong connection to Britain’s ancient landscape, Milne became more inspired by the mountainous terrains of Greece, Morocco and Iran. He was attracted particularly to the architecture, the traces of ancient civilisations and the willing young men he encountered, and the extracts from his travel diaries reproduced here are exceptionally fine.

Although their relationship was not always an easy one, Milne was devastated when Hepworth died in a fire in 1975, an event that exacerbated his regular bouts of suicidal depression and insomnia. At the same time, he was achieving his greatest success as a sculptor, with major exhibitions in Britain, America and Ireland. Having visited St Ives in late autumn, however, Massey finds it ‘easy then to imagine how one might turn in on oneself, depression seeping in like a sea fog, so that you gradually lose your bearings’, and Milne died the day after his 47th birthday from an accidental overdose of barbiturates.

Massey skilfully describes the physicality of Milne’s sculptures, mere photographs of which do not convey their volume or the experience of walking round them. He also provides an illuminating account of the queer and artistic circles in which Milne had moved in Manchester before coming to St Ives. This is an absorbing and extremely well written book, and it sheds new and welcome light both on Milne and the celebrated town in which he lived and worked.

Queer St Ives and Other Stories Ian Massey Ridinghouse, pp. 256, £30





For sale: Francis Bacon’s former home


where he painted George Dyer




Five bedroom house comes with a piece of Britain’s artistic history






There are conflicting accounts of how Francis Bacon met George Dyer, his artistic muse. The most captivating story is that Dyer, known as a criminal from East London, attempted to burgle Bacon’s Reece Mews home in 1963. According to The Irish Times, Bacon told Dyer he could take whatever he wanted if he took his clothes off and came into his bed.

Although this may be urban legend, Bacon continued to paint Dyer in his small studio at Reece Mews. Bacon’s London home serves as the location where he crafted his most famous works as he reported “I feel at home here in this chaos because the chaos suggests images to me”. Francis Bacon’s artwork is known for its abstract and ominous flare, a vision that he enabled through the griminess of London.

 Surprisingly however, Bacon swapped his Reece Mews home for the quieter Horsemoor Studio in 1964, a house located in Chieveley, Berkshire and known now as Courthill. Bacon found his Chieveley home through an advertisement James Page-Roberts, the previous owner, placed in The Daily Telegraph. Although he experienced less robbery in his country home, his artistic passion withered.

In The Gilded Gutter Life of Francis Bacon, Daniel Farson notes the artist’s reaction to his new home, remarking, “I thought I’d be able to do some work there, but I’ve discovered that the light is entirely wrong. The studio’s facing the wrong way”.

Although the studio was rebuilt by Page-Roberts, the glass walls and marble floor failed to suit Bacon’s grungy and dark aesthetic. He continued to derive artistic inspiration from Dyer, with Page-Roberts recalling in his blog an instance when Dyer draped himself on the studio platform in a “languid, greased-hair pose”.

Page-Roberts progresses by writing how he would occasionally see a Bacon painting of Dyer and notice that it had been created when Dyer would “recline in the corner” of the studio. Bacon and Dyer therefore spent much time together in Chieveley with photographs taken of the two sitting outside the property.

After undergoing extensive refurbishment, remodelling, and enlargement, Courthill is now on the market with Carter Jonas for £1,000,000. At 2,540 sq ft, the house includes five bedrooms, a bespoke fitted kitchen, and a south facing garden which looks onto open farmland.

Edward Westmacott, of Carter Jonas Newbury, comments that “this exquisite house would suit a family, or a buyer who is particularly architecturally inclined and is keen to own a part of Britain’s artistic history”.

Courthill serves as a spacious family property and tells a story of art.





                                  Francis Bacon (right) and George Dyer on the Orient Express in 1964





A $23.8 M. Francis Bacon Painting Has

Become a Political Football in the U.K.






A painting by British artist Francis Bacon worth £20 million ($23.8 million) has become the center of a political battle in Leicester, England, after a Liberal-Democrat politician decried the city’s Labour-controlled Council’s keeping the work in basement storage, the BBC reported Sunday.

Bacon’s Lying Figure No. 1 (1959) had been on view at the Leicester Museum and Art Gallery until recently. The City Council, which owns the artwork, cited space limitations as the reason for its removal.

 “I’m sure a lot of people would visit Leicester just to come and look at it. It must be the most valuable painting we have got in the museum,” said Liberal Democrat councillor Nigel Porter. “Rather than having this £20m painting stuck in some basement, what harm would there be to put it on display and have it back where it was?” he questioned.

“We have an astonishingly large collection of very important artwork,” Leicester’s mayor Peter Soulsby responded. “It is inevitably the case that, compared to the scale of the collection, we have a limited amount of wall space on which to hang them.” Furthermore, Soulsby explained, Lying Figure No. 1 “will be safely in storage and will be on display in rotation as time passes.”

The sizable oil painting depicts a blurred curvaceous figure at the center lying upside down on what appears to be a green couch, feet propped against a blue wall. The City purchased it in 1960 with the assistance of the Museums and Galleries Commission and a Victoria and Albert Museum Purchase Grant Fund.

Since the artist’s death in 1992, Bacon’s works have fetched high prices at auction. Just last week, his Study for Portrait of Lucian Freud (1964) sold at Sotheby’s for £43 million ($52 million). Three Studies of Lucian Freud (1969) still holds the record, however, at $127 million, from a 2014 sale at Christie’s.

This news comes on the heels of a decision made earlier last month by the U.K.’s Tate Museum to return a donated archive of Bacon works to its owner Barry Joule, a former neighbour of the late artist. The collection, which has been under the museum’s examination since 2004, included 800 magazine and newspaper clippings, 39 photographs of Bacon and his friends, other ephemera, and an “X Album” of overpainted sketches.

Tate made the news public on June 8, The Art Newspaper reported in a statement, explaining that the archive had been “researched by art historians, and this research has raised credible doubts about the nature and quality of the material,” adding that the “material does not lend itself to any significant exhibition, and any potential it held to improve the public’s understanding of Bacon’s art has been exhausted. It has therefore been considered unsuitable for retention in Tate Archive. In the first instance, it has been offered back to the donor, in line with the donor’s wishes.”



                                                  Francis Bacon posing in front of his paintings in a Paris gallery, 1987.






‘Tate capitulated to my legal demand’: donor of disputed Francis Bacon

archive responds to museum’s return of collection




Barry Joule disputes gallery’s claim that trove of sketches and documents,

which he donated, was unsuitable for retention







Barry Joule, who donated his Francis Bacon archive to the Tate, tells The Art Newspaper that its decision in June to return a thousand items was at his insistence. “Tate capitulated to my legal demand,” he says.


On 8 June we revealed the Tate’s decision to return the archive to Joule, the friend of Bacon who had donated it. Joule has subsequently provided The Art Newspaper with a lengthy and detailed response to the Tate announcement.


In January his lawyers, Collyer Bristow, had demanded “the return to Joule of the entire donated archive whilst highlighting the non-fulfilment of the Tate/Joule contract”. Joule says that he had “long suspected they [Tate] wanted to hang onto it forever, lingering in their basement vaults, and for me to shut up and go far away”.

The Tate’s 8 June statement said that the Joule donation had been “researched by art historians, and this research has raised credible doubts about the nature and quality of the material”.


The Tate statement added: “The material does not lend itself to any significant exhibition, and any potential it held to improve the public’s understanding of Bacon’s art has been exhausted. It has therefore been considered unsuitable for retention in Tate Archive. In the first instance, it has been offered back to the donor, in line with the donor’s wishes.”


It is most unusual for the Tate to deaccession works, or archives, and this decision needed to be approved by the gallery trustees.


In his response, Joule explains that he had acquired around a thousand documents and sketches, which he is convinced are from the hand of Francis Bacon. Joule, a neighbour of Bacon’s, had known him since 1978. He would do occasional odd jobs for the artist and became a friend.


Joule’s collection donated to the Tate included 800 magazine and newspaper cuttings, some bearing pencil and pen marks and daubs of paint. There were also 39 photographs of Bacon and his friends, books and other documents. Finally, there was the so-called “X Album” of overpainted sketches, which the Tate now describes as “of unknown authorship”. Joule has always vigorously defended the authenticity of all the items...


The collection was apparently given by Bacon to Joule at his Reece Mews studio in London on 18 April 1992, ten days before the artist’s death. Joule cites a witness who recorded seeing the artist help load up his car with the papers


Joule handed over the archive to the Tate for examination in early 2003. A contract donating the archive was subsequently signed on 15 January 2004, with no requests for payment or tax concessions.


At the time of the donation the papers were described as probably the Tate Archive’s most important acquisition ever. Press reports suggested that it might be valued at up to £20m, although the source of this figure is now unclear.


The 2004 press announcement stated that “Tate will undertake to study, photograph and catalogue the collection over the next three years, before displaying these items and making them available for loan”.


Joule says that, despite the promise of an exhibition, this never occurred in what is now more than 18 years. Disappointingly, the archive was not digitised and posted online, although he says he had offered to fund this. Joule blames the Bacon Estate. “Over the years they have continually exerted their considerable influence on the Tate to make certain the archive was never exhibited,” he says.


In June last year the Francis Bacon Estate, set up by the artist to administer his inheritance, published an analysis of the Joule archive by their archivist, Sophie Pretorius. Her essay was included in the estate’s publication Francis Bacon: Shadows.  The Tate’s private letter to Joule, informing him that the archive would be returned, relied heavily on the Pretorius research.


“Fake news, cheap shots”


Joule is dismissive of the essay. He describes it as “fake news, peppered with cheap shots and slurs at myself, filled with omissions and glaring inaccuracies”. Joule points out that Pretorius failed to contact him for any information while she was working on his archive.


Details are disputed. Pretorius writes that Bacon never used charcoal, which appears in some of the items in the Joule archive. Joule disagrees, pointing out that he was in Bacon’s studio on numerous occasions, whereas she was not.


Joule also stresses that his archive has been exhibited at major museums, including the Irish Museum of Modern Art in Dublin, the Barbican Art Gallery in London, the National Gallery of Canada in Ottawa, the Musée Picasso in Paris, the Fondation Maeght in Saint-Paul de Vence and, most recently, the Shoto Museum of Art in Tokyo.


The Barbican catalogue was published with support from the late David Bowie. Joule says that Bowie was deeply involved with its production, “even insisting on the disturbing transformation image for the cover”.


In April this year Joule told The Observer that he has now cancelled plans to give the Tate hundreds more items that he had saved from Bacon’s studio. He lives in France and instead intends to offer them to the archives of the Centre Pompidou in Paris. “The Tate and Britain will be missing out on part of the nation’s art history of one of their most important painters. I turn my back on the Tate forever.”


A spokesperson for the Centre Pompidou says that it “hasn’t had any contact with Barry Joule in this matter and we only learnt about it through the press”.


The Francis Bacon Estate comments: “Many specialists from within the Estate and without have studied the material, coming to the conclusion that the material does not bear any substantial evidence of Bacon’s hand.”







  Reece Mews in South Kensington, London, where the artist lived and worked for 30 years








Leicester owns famous Francis Bacon painting worth £20m

— but you can’t look at it





‘It must be the most valuable painting we have got in the museum’






A painting by Francis Bacon claimed to be the most valuable in Leicester’s collection is in storage and unable to be enjoyed by members of the public Leicester City Council owns the work of art titled Lying Figure No1, which is thought to be worth around £20 million.

But the piece, which dates back to 1959, is not currently on display. It would formerly housed at the top of the stairs in the New Walk Lricester Museum and Art Gallery.

Liberal Democrat councillor for Aylestone ward, Nigel Porter, questioned why such a valuable work of art was ‘sitting in a basement somewhere’ at a scrutiny meeting this week. “I think a lot of people would like to see it,” he said.

“It’s a very valuable, very important painting and I’m sure a lot of people would visit Leicester just to come and look at it. It must be the most valuable painting we have got in the museum.

“Rather than having this £20 million painting stuck in some basement, what harm would there be to put it on display and have it back where it was?”

Bacon died in 1992 and his works have been selling for huge sums. In 2013 his Three Studies of Lucien Freud sold for a record $142.4m in New York. Another piece of his called Seated Figure sold for $40m in 2014.

However, city mayor, Sir Peter Soulsby, said the council has many valuable paintings in its collection and cannot have them all on display at the same time. “Down to the generosity of previous generations, we have an astonishingly large collection of very important artwork,” he said.

“It is inevitably the case that, compared to the scale of the collection, we have a limited amount of wall space on which to hang them.

“If it is the case that the Bacon is not in display at the moment, I can assure [Councillor Porter] that is will be safely in storage and will be on display in rotation as time passes,” he added.



Francis Bacon. Lying Figure No I. Oil on Canvas. Leicestershire Museums






   Sotheby’s sales in London fall short —


though Francis Bacon brings in £43.4m




Bidding was strong for red-chip artists, but the air is much thinner at the top of the market






Sotheby’s Modern and contemporary art sale yesterday was a study of extremes, but ultimately fell short of its estimate of £70m-£101m, bringing in a lacklustre £64m (£76.8m with fees).


At times there were bidders almost jumping out of their seats and experts wildly gesticulating while whispering into their phones and holding out shaky hands to try and get another bid in. At other times, especially during the latter half of the sale, many of the experts who were manning the phones looked slightly bored, their heads down, texting, chatting to each other or casually flipping through what was presumably the printed catalogue.

That does not mean there was no excitement. The sale started off at a gallop, with the first five lots spurring fast-paced bidding from the phones, the floor and online. Michel Majerus’s new comer (2000) opened the sale and sparked a snappy bidding battle between specialists Bame March and James Sevier, with some added competition from the floor. The picture sold for £190,000 (£239,400 with fees) against a £150,000 high estimate to the bidder on the phone with Sevier. Next was golden lion winner Simone Leigh’s Blue/Black (2014), a terracotta and porcelain bust that looks both ancient and futuristic. The sculpture sold for well above its high estimate of £300,000, hammering at £490,000 (£617,400 with fees), after a lengthy battle between David Galperin, Julian Gascoigne, Gregoire Billault and Oliver Barker, who worked in the trenches while Helena Newman took command of the rostrum.

Gagosian’s new recruit Anna Weyant’s elegant still life Buffet (2020) came next and within a minute or two doubled its high estimate of £150,000. An absentee bidder swatted away the competition at first with what turned out to be a £200,000 bid, but the pressure kept coming, as did the bids. The picture ultimately hammered at £370,000 (£466,200 with fees). The fourth lot, René Magritte’s eerie La Saveur des larmes (1938 or 1939) was the first lot to break £1m, but also foreshadowed the latter half of the sale when the excitement had dissipated in the room. The picture hammered at £1.3m (£1.6 with fees). Bidding was slow and felt conspicuously drawn out foStudy for Clouds (Contre-jour) (1970), an ethereal picture populated with translucent clouds by Gerhard Richter. With an estimate of £6m-£8m, the canvas eventually hammered at £8.4m (£11.2m with fees) to a bidder in the room.

Andy Warhol’s Self Portrait (1986) was one of the most impressive lots but did not bring in as much as expected. The estimate was £12m-£18m and it barely sold after a round of bidding that was over almost as soon as it began. Newman opened the bidding at £10m, and the picture hammered at £11m (£12.7m with fees).

Still, more than 50% of the of the works sold above the high estimate. But the pace that introduced the sale, almost exclusively for the red-chip artists that have been commanding the market for the past couple of years, proved to be unsustainable. Indeed, for a sale that had more than 40 lots, only nine went unsold—but six of those were among the last 12 lots, among them Andreas Gursky’s Chicago, Board of Trade III (1999-2009), Camille Pissarro’s charming Statue d’Henri IV et hôtel de la Monnaie, matin ensoleillé (1901) and Eugène Boudin’s Trouville, l’heure du bain (1881).

Meanwhile, the preceding Jubilee Auction of British art brought in £61m (£72.3m with fees), again noticeably short of the £73m-£99.9m estimate. Here, a 1964 portrait of Lucian Freud by Francis Bacon accounted for more than half of the sale’s value, achieving £43.4m with fees.

In total, Sotheby’s made £125m (£149.1m with premium), falling below the low end of its combined pre-sale estimate of £143m-£201m. The market could yet be headed for a correction.





Francis Bacon portrait of Lucian Freud sells for £43 million







A Francis Bacon painting of Lucian Freud has sold for a record-breaking £43.4 million at auction The work, Study For Portrait Of Lucian Freud, had not been seen in public for almost 60 years and was owned by the same person - described by Sotheby’s as a “distinguished European collector” for four decades.

It was originally estimated to make £35 million before it went under the hammer at the auction house. The artwork was painted by Bacon in 1964 and based on a photograph of his contemporary and great friend Freud, taken in the same year by their mutual friend John Deakin.

It was last seen on display in 1965 when it was on show as the central panel of a large-scale triptych as part of a travelling exhibition to Hamburg and Stockholm. The piece was also displayed on its own in Dublin in the same year.

Bacon separated the three individual works of the triptych shortly after they were created, with the left-hand panel in a private collection and the right-hand piece belonging to the Israel Museum in Jerusalem. Bacon and Freud had been friends for 20 year prior to Bacon’s creation of Study For Portrait Of Lucian Freud and shared a friendship for over 40 years, before relations soured and the relationship ended in the mid-1980s

Both artists painted each other on numerous occasions, with Freud often painting from real-life and Bacon preferring to work from photographs.

In the instance of Study For Portrait Of Lucian Freud, Bacon used an image of Freud sitting on a bed with his arms outstretched, fists clenched and white sleeves rolled up above the elbows. The black and white photographs taken by photographer Deakin became Bacon’s primary source material as he painted Freud obsessively in the 1960s.

Bacon kept the photographs with him for the rest of his life, and they were rediscovered torn, crumpled and splattered with paint in his studio following his death in 1992, Sotheby’s said. Ahead of the portrait’s sale, senior director of contemporary art at Sotheby’s, Tom Eddison, described the work as being “executed with painterly bravura at the height of Bacon’s acclaim”.










Velázquez’s Pope eclipses Bacon’s ‘silly’ screamers




A firsthand encounter with the Spanish artist’s portrait of Pope Innocent X

in Rome puts the later interpretations in perspective






Recently, I was about to see a painting by a favourite artist that I had never viewed in the flesh—the Portrait of Pope Innocent X (1650) by Diego Velázquez in the Galleria Doria Pamphilj, Rome. Yet amid my excitement was a hint of trepidation. Two things provoked it. First, the fear of disappointment. Just before my visit, the artist Mark Leckey had confided in our A brush with podcast how he had journeyed to view Michelangelo’s Sistine ceiling but found that he “couldn’t see  it”. He said: “I made this pilgrimage. And then it was denied by the crowds and everything else. It was just horrible.”

I had been so bewitched by Velázquez’s painting in reproduction, so expectant of its mastery, that I couldn’t help but worry that it might not live up to the magnificence I’d already projected onto it. At least, at the mercifully quiet Galleria Doria Pamphilj, there are none of the stifling hordes that contributed to Leckey’s disillusionment in the Vatican Museums.

But then there was a different claustrophobia surrounding the Velázquez: Francis Bacon’s interpretations of it, many of which I had seen up close. There are around 50 Bacon Popes, made from the 1940s to the 1960s, which, according to Gilles Deleuze “hystericised all the elements of Velázquez’s painting” by portraying the pontiff in various stages of scream. After Bacon’s shrill horror, is it possible to innocently see Innocent X?

Bacon himself never saw Velázquez’s masterpiece, even though he visited Rome in 1954, at the height of his engagement with it. Would confronting it have affected his capacity to reinvent it? He avoided making portraits from life, because, as he said, “I don’t want to practice before them the injury that I do to them in my work.” Whatever, as Deleuze tells us, Bacon always expressed “his doubt and discontent” when he discussed them.

Now, more than ever, I can see why. Perhaps no one described the power of Velázquez’s paintings better than Bacon when he said: “In each of his portraits you find the life and the death of his characters.” What I hadn’t expected, something visible perhaps only in the flesh, is the tenderness in Velázquez’s handling—even if it’s unflinching, it’s also empathetic, one of Velázquez’s greatest qualities.

You also feel a little-discussed delight—a relish in the depiction of Innocent’s ruddiness, perhaps after so many sessions with the pallid Habsburgs in the austere gloom of the Spanish court. Most powerfully, more even than in Las Meninas (1656), I felt Velázquez’s presence in the picture—while he observes the most powerful man in the world, he is being observed, and so, too, are we.

The multitudes contained in Velázquez’s canvas make Bacon’s interpretations seem almost “silly”, as he himself described them. So magnificent is the Spaniard’s painting that those screams fade to whimpers.






    Despite his recreations of it (left), Francis Bacon never saw Velázquez’s masterpiece (right)—even though he visited Rome in 1954






Poisonous feud between the artists who painted the town red:


Behind the £35m sale of an iconic portrait lies the colourful tale of how

Francis Bacon and Lucian Freud  —  once so close many thought them

lovers  —  fell into spiteful rivalry, writes Richard Kay




Francis Bacon became ‘bitter and bitchy’ towards his one-time protégé Freud






Like all good feuds, theirs began in a blizzard of mutual admiration — passion, even — that led some in London’s bohemian circles to wonder if there was a frisson of romance to their friendship.

But it was art, not sex, that drew Lucian Freud and Francis Bacon to one another. Bacon, thrown out of the family home when his father found him wearing his mother’s clothes, was childless and gay; while Freud, who acknowledged 14 children but may have fathered as many as 40, was an ardent pursuer of women.

Both men had a prodigious appetite for the good life. For more than 30 years the two were inseparable, drinking and carousing in raffish Soho bars and clubs, gambling — roulette for Bacon, the horse track for Freud — and basking in each other’s company.

And, of course, they painted one another, too — indeed, Freud sat for Bacon no fewer than 18 times. Such was their closeness that Lady Caroline Blackwood, Freud’s second wife, noted that she had dinner with Bacon ‘nearly every night for more or less the whole of my marriage to Lucian — we also had lunch’. The marriage, perhaps inevitably, lasted only four years.

Freud recalled seeing Bacon at some point virtually every day for a quarter of a century. The pair scrutinised each other’s work. As Bacon put it: ‘Who can I tear to pieces if not my friends?’ Alas, over time, this competitive rivalry consumed their friendship and their mutual regard for one another descended into envy, resentment and hatred.

The sale at the end of this month of Bacon’s 1964 work Study For Portrait Of Lucian Freud, which is expected to go under the hammer for £35 million at auction, has reignited the story of one of the art world’s greatest sagas. It is a story as electrifying and colourful as any of the masterpieces both men produced. It also followed a noble artistic tradition. Van Gogh and Gauguin were also friends-turned-enemies and when their relationship ended, the Dutchman sliced off his own ear.

If the poisonous feud between Freud and Bacon did not descend to quite such grisly levels, nor did it do anything to diminish their public status as Britain’s greatest post-war artists: the Turner and the Constable of their age. No two artists did more to revitalise figurative painting than Freud and Bacon, and both lived to see their work sell for many millions of pounds.

Such status and riches must have seemed a distant prospect when they first met in the louche and dangerous streets of bombed-out Soho in the mid-1940s. Freud, who was 13 years Bacon’s junior, looked up to the older man, who represented a thrilling example of how to conduct the life of an artist while also embodying an aristocratic spirit.

In background, they couldn’t have been more different. Bacon, born in 1909 to well-to-do British parents in Ireland where his father trained racehorses, had little formal education because of severe asthma. His childhood was turbulent, not least because of his abusive father, who once ordered stable boys to give him a whipping.

After spending time decadently in Paris and Berlin, he arrived in London in 1930 where he found work as a gentleman’s gentleman, only to be fired when his master saw him dining at the next table at the Ritz. As one biographer noted, the flamboyant Bacon ‘could be found in the gutter or the Ritz and was at home in both’.

Even in later years, when he was recognised as England’s finest painter for 150 years and his work was selling for many millions, Bacon still preferred to travel by bus and live in the same scruffy mews house he had for years. For a time, he earned a precarious living as a designer of furniture and rugs, and it wasn’t until the closing years of World War II that he started painting seriously.

Self-taught, his work demonstrated considerable technical ability and originality that took the art world by storm. Even so, he was his own most severe critic and he destroyed more canvases than have survived of that period.

Freud, born in Germany in 1922 and raised in Berlin during the rising tide of Nazism, studied at art school. As a Jew and the grandson of Sigmund Freud, the founder of psychoanalysis, whom the Nazis abhorred, he had to be accompanied by a bodyguard to and from his private school. The family fled to Britain and Lucian was sent to Bryanston public school in Dorset. He was expelled for dropping his trousers for a dare in Bournemouth.

However, there were other domestic similarities with Bacon. He had a lifelong estrangement from his younger brother Clement, the broadcaster and former Liberal MP, and was only partly reconciled with his elder brother Stephen, an ironmonger. After a stint of war service in the Merchant Navy, he began to paint full-time from his early 20s.

Like Bacon, Freud gravitated towards the drinking dens, illegal betting shops and seedy sex parlours of Soho. Both loved its gilded squalor.

In Bacon, Freud found a teacher not just in art but in life. From him he learned about the best wine, food and tailoring. They spent much of their time at the Gargoyle Club and later the Colony Room, drinking and arguing with figures such as the philosophers Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir. But, usually, they preferred to be alone and, if they could, would exclude anyone else.

Many found this self-obsession insufferable and rumours circulated that the pair were sleeping together. Biographers have suggested this friendship did have a ‘quasi-erotic tone’ but that it was ‘sensual’ rather than sexual.

Freud’s daughter Annie said her father described Bacon as having the ‘most sensuous forearms . . . That is lover-like, isn’t it?’ The two were rarely apart — breakfast at a working man’s cafe in Smithfield Market, lunch at Wheeler’s on Old Compton Street, then drinking in the Colony. A lot of it, recalled friends, was the two of them showing off.

Then there was the gambling: both men were reckless. On one occasion Freud lost everything he owned, including his car, which he went home to fetch and drove to a garage to sell, placing the proceeds on a horse which also lost. Bacon was similarly profligate, throwing money at people and buying extravagant rounds of drinks. He would say: ‘Champagne for my real friends — real pain for my sham friends.’

In 1949, they attended a white-tie ball where an ingenue Princess Margaret had taken the microphone and began to sing an out-of-key Cole Porter classic, Let’s Do It. Bacon, who was standing with Freud, started to boo and hiss and a red-faced Margaret fled mid-song with her ladies in waiting. Freud declared his friend was the most fearless man he had ever met, the ‘wildest and wisest’.

Although they painted in the same tradition, their methods were very different. Freud liked to show women’s flesh, wrinkled by age and imperfections. Bacon’s distorted portraits captured the peculiar horror of modern life.

When Lucian first sat for Bacon in 1951, he was fascinated by Bacon’s hurried and spontaneous approach. Bacon, when sitting for Freud the following year, was amazed at how long the younger man took to paint. This portrait was stolen from a gallery in Berlin in 1988.

Their sexual proclivities, however, were wildly different. Henrietta Moraes, a muse to both men, was painted and pleasured by Freud — for Bacon the beauty was sitter and drinking companion.

Freud fretted over his friend’s taste in rough male trade and couldn’t understand his relationship with George Dyer, a hanger-on of the Kray crime gang family. Bacon liked rogues and was sexually unafraid at a time when homosexuals caught in the act could still be imprisoned.

Bacon disapproved of Freud’s hobnobbing with aristocrats. But Freud relied on this ‘posh trade’ for his portraits and for the ruthless candour the upper-classes offered. In the 1950s and 1960s, Freud was the less successful and viewed by the snobbish art world as Bacon’s ‘pet’. But everything changed with Freud’s first major show in 1969.

Suddenly, Freud found the sycophants around Bacon tiresome while Bacon grew tired of Freud’s refusal to acknowledge any kind of ‘duty’. They also became impatient of each other’s sexual obsessions.

Francis became ‘bitter and bitchy’ towards his one-time protégé. As a rift opened up, Bacon cruelly observed of his one-time friend: ‘She’s [Freud’s] left me after all this time and she’s had all these children just to prove she’s not homosexual.’ Freud, who was by now the much more substantial figure, confined his public remarks to criticism of Bacon’s art. ‘Ghastly’, he said of his work from the 1980s on.

Matters came to a head when Freud accepted honours — both men had previously turned down the CBE. But Freud accepted a CH — Companion of Honour — and later became an OM, a member of the Order of Merit. Bacon observed: ‘I came into this world as Mr Bacon and I want to leave as Mr Bacon.’

They did occasionally meet in the 1980s but their encounters were punctuated by ever-longer silences. On one occasion, Freud telephoned Bacon at home. The conversation ended with a red-faced Francis slamming the receiver down so violently the wall shook.

A few years later — and shortly before his death in 1992 — Bacon was having breakfast in a London restaurant when Freud walked in and past his table without stopping. Bacon observed sadly: ‘That’s the way things are.’

Freud, who outlived his one-time friend by 19 years, had other feuds with lovers, friends and agents. There was no rapprochement with Bacon — but he kept one of his paintings hanging on his bedroom wall until the day he died.



         For more than 30 years the two were inseparable: friends Francis Bacon and Lucian Freud 





Francis Bacon: why Tate returned a 1,000-piece archive







This week: Why is Tate rejecting an archive of material relating to Francis Bacon,18 years after acquiring it? Our London correspondent Martin Bailey tells us about his recent scoop that Tate is returning a thousand documents and sketches said to have come from the studio of Francis Bacon. The Art Newspaper broke the story last week that the items are due to be returned to Barry Joule, a friend of the artist, who gave them to the Tate in 2004. At the time of the donation the material was described as probably the Tate archives most important acquisition ever but last week Tate issued a statement that the items had been researched by art historians who had raised credible doubts about the nature and quality of the material.

Now among the scholars to have expressed doubts about the Joule archive are Martin Harrison, the pre-eminent Bacon expert who compiled the catalogue raisonné of the artist’s work published in 2016, and Sophie Pretorius, the archivist for the Francis Bacon Estate, mentioned by Martin Bailey, who analysed the Barry Joule donation in the Tate archive item by item and wrote an essay on the subject for a recent publication Francis Bacon: Shadows. I went to 7 Reece Mews in London, the location of Bacon’s famously detritus strewn studio, where he worked from 1962 until his death in 1992, to talk to them.

Ben Luke: Martin, you put together the catalogue raisonné of Bacon’s work over a long period; at what point did Joule’s material enter into your thoughts in that process, did you consider the material for the catalogue raisonné?

Martin Harrison: Joules material was available before the catalogue raisonné began, which in earnest was 2006, and it was well known before that, I tried to stress that I was author of the catalogue raisonné primarily but I had a committee, an authentication committee of five distinguished art historians, who obviously became friends, one can understand, we met twice a year and some I knew already and their opinions were very important and so when we saw, as we did latterly, material that came from Barry Joule, I had then to voice their opinions; in case of one member of my committee, he almost refused to look at it: Why are you making me look at this garbage, basically. You know the whole question comes back to one, and they’re not popular ways of looking at art anymore, but the question of authenticity, and you can be, I could bore people with lots of pages of writing about this, will make an intellectual case out on a long carefully reasoned argument for what that means, but in the past great art historians going way back sometimes said things and it sounds a bit rhetorical but it gets to the truth: Look if it looks like a Rubens or Caravaggio it’s probably not a Bacon, there’s even chance it’s Rubens of a Caravaggio. And the works from Barry Joule, I often use the word, they’re like juvenile parodies of Bacon, they’re based on Bacon, to some extent, the imagery past, which they bare no relation in their fabrication and materials and in every conceivable way.

We’re talking a vast number of things, more than a thousand, I am told, and across that material you have drawings, you have archive material, photographs that have been sketched on, etcetera, to what extent are there just obvious inconsistencies in those materials; for instance, is it right there are things like charcoal which Bacon never used?

Yes, the materials themselves are one the key reasons why you’d immediately eliminate them, or, be very careful with the way you questioned and examined them, and it presupposes, therefore, that there was a whole body of work by Bacon which came ostensibly from the building we’re sitting in, 7 Reece Mews, Bacon’s studio, and yet even in those terms of the actual materials, bore no relation, or hardly any relation ever to the material we know came from this studio, and was removed forensically and archeologically, eventually to the Hugh Lane Gallery in Dublin. The differences between that material, which we can take and no one’s ever going to question that and surely wouldn’t, as authentically Bacon’s, and for material I don’t believe came from here at all. Perhaps occasionally there was some base-material that came from here and was worked on by someone else. We tend to say, its easier, that it was Barry Joule himself but we don’t know that, he could have had a sister we don’t know of or a friend, or anything that made them, could be more than one person, so you’re only guessing then and we’re trying to make this a carefully scrutinised question of establishing real authenticity so one doesn’t want to be careless about attributing things so what we may say among ourselves, a lot of it not printable, you asked what acquaintance I had, most of my members had seen material, I was granted a day at the Tate, I think it was 2003 because they realised my project; at that time the public weren’t really being allowed in to look at it because it wasn’t in a form properly within its archive where it could be. And you know a day was more than enough, it’s deeply depressing and of course it had been shown before that at IMMA in Dublin and at the Barbican art gallery here in London and I’d seen that, that was just the selection that was displayed and you sort of looked at it in disbelief, as most people did, and you know that people were prepared to entertain it, you might wonder what their motives were for this and perhaps there were people who actually can’t tell a Francis Bacon from a Lucian Freud, and you’d want to test their ability to do that and know what criteria they applied in making this comparative assessment to see whether their views worth listening to.

So what was your reaction when the Tate acquired this material for its archive?

Well, people have shown me emails that prove I was sort of around but I was very much on the edge. I wasn’t then being sponsored, as I was to write my first book about Bacon or around Bacon, called In Camera by the Bacon Estate and I was no part of that process. I knew the main protagonists and I was being proved to me I was in London where David Sylvester was present and there was a lot of material on show, I didn’t live in London then I came down for the day and I remember seeing it on tables and just being well, bemused would be a polite word, what is all this, and it was so disparate, I guess, you’ve referred yourself to, works over photographs, actual works on paper and so on, so many different things and all looking like some wild fantasy around Bacon and I had not yet begun the catalogue raisonné and so if you’re going to grandly call yourself a Bacon expert that I had to be careful about saying it back then but I kind of knew what a Bacon looked like and it was nothing like this; and someone from the Tate was there, I think David Mellor, who was then professor at Sussex and some of these people knew Joule, as I did. And the fact that he’s a very affable chap, which he was and charmed people sometimes complicated this slightly, he came across so well and he often goes around with pictures of himself and Francis because no one’s denying he knew Francis. I tried to persuade him, and put a lot of effort into it, to do a book, I said tell the truth about you and Bacon because especially in the last five or six years of Francis’s life, John Edwards wasn’t around much and Barry was a valued helper, yes electrician, driver a lot, odd jobs, Bacon needed people like that because he was on his own, he was very much on his own, Bacon, and it’s jolly useful to have someone near by to perform those functions so he was generally useful to him, quite genuinely; and the thing that interested me as an art historian, he was almost uniquely given access to take snap shots around the studio; so Barry would send me photographs of authentic Bacon paintings in the studio here in Reece Mews half finished; imagine what of value that is because we only know the finished painting, he showed canvases begun with a rough sketch of an idea which don’t exist that Bacon obviously the next day, whatever, scrapped it; these are invaluable. I said Barry, tell the true stories and show your pictures which they’re not great quality, technically, but really valuable historically, and I put him in touch with a publisher but.

And we are now joined by Sophie Pretorius who wrote an essay in the book Francs Bacon: Shadows which went through the Joule material in detail. Sophie can say something about your methodology for doing that; so you were looking at each individual item of this archive?

Sophie Pretorius: So, yes I was asked by the Estate to go into the Tate and establish the authenticity of each item individually because most of the discussion of this work it’s always been, well, the base material is real, the marks on top are questionable and no one’s ever really analysed if that first statement is true: the base material is real: it just looks a bit like stuff Bacon had and so I went in, very open minded and for the better part of a year everyday went though each and every item and slowly went insane because, as Martin said, it’s so obvious it’s not Bacon and if you have eye-balls, it’s true, like, there’s no denying it.

And just how early in the process were you thinking like that? First day?

Yes, especially because when you go into the Tate and ask to see this archive you get shown the X-Album first and the X-Album is this once bound now unbound photography album that’s been painted on with finished drawings sort of presentation drawings, we can get into the nature of drawing and Bacon maybe a bit later but he definitely didn’t make presentation drawings; but these get shown to you, probably the worst things in the whole archive, they’re really bad, very juvenile, they have giant, as we’re looking at here, giant penises drawn like on a boys lavatory wall, really ridiculous; outrageous; men dressed as sailors and things. You look at them and I obviously admire Bacon a great deal and you think, oh, poor Francis, that’s what you think; and so yes, very early on in the process I thought this; but connoisseurship of that sort, Morellian analysis, is very much dead in art history and there are reasons behind that, not good reasons but there are reasons and so scientific fact, that’s what you need to establish and so I was going through, trawling trawling trying to find something that was undeniable and I did, six months in, I found a clipping from 1995. Bacon is dead by 95. And this is what’s so confusing about the journalistic reaction to this essay, my essay, is there are points like that and chronologies is another one of these things that just gets swept under the table. Francis cannot paint if he’s dead. Journalists, when they asked us for a comment, we sent them a PDF of my essay it’s in-depth as we can possibly get and they picked up the charcoal comment, which you repeated to Martin earlier now that is a point I make in the essay but it’s a point 150 of 300; and it’s true that he didn’t work in charcoal ever and there’s no charcoal in his studio and there’s lots of charcoal in the Barry Joule archive but he strongest points in my essay are Bacon can’t paint when he’s dead and various other large lacunae in the author of the Barry Joule materials working practice but I guess it’s not very sexy to say something that completely damns it; it has to be will it won’t it, could it be, so I trawled through and I would say, as Martin said, because Barry did know Bacon, there are somethings that are real; there are photographs in there there are receipt for when they went to Bibendum but you can sort of count the items on two hands and the Tate did a show in 2019 of material from the Barry Joule archive and they very cleverly included nothing with a single mark on it; no paint, no watercolour, no charcoal, it was only detritus of their friendship of which Barry has kept most so the stuff in the Tate is miniscule and you didn’t ask me the question but if the stuff that was in that show can be considered genuine and as much as they are photographs of them together, genuine photographs, but the end of my research over that period the conclusion was none of the marks on it could be by Bacon; and if you’re going to talk about material, the main point against it is none of them are in oil, and Bacon painted in oils and there’s not even drips of oil paint on any of it.

And if you look at the studio photographs of Reece Mews there’s just oil everywhere right.

Yeh, and oil obviously leaves a hallo on paper and so it’s so easy to tell when its oil and not watercolour; also watercolour everywhere in there, Bacon didn’t own a tube of watercolour; so you have to think that Bacon had a separate studio he kept all this stuff in, if it’s real, to work exclusively in charcoal and watercolour and kept it all separate and then gave it to Barry and the mental gymnastics you have to do in order to justify it because in the spirit of open enquiry I was trying very hard to think am I biased I’ve been asked by the Estate, obviously, there’s a history there, if it was real I would have said it was and unfortunately it isn’t.

And just to be clear, the idea of the base-materials, you’ve talked about counting on two hands, so there’s nothing that has inauthentic marks in your view on a base material that is real?

There’s one item which is a Bacon catalogue that has the evidence of Bacon fumbling the edges, I mean it’s likely that it was Bacon’s and that has some watercolour drawings over the paintings so there’s been figures added to a painting, a reproduction of one of Bacon’s paintings in this catalogue. So there’s one out of a thousand. Bacon was very generous with his possessions and so there’s lots of books in there that are inscribed to Bacon from famous people; Peter Beard for instance, there’s a dear Francis here’s my latest catalogue love Peter, that’s there, so that obviously was Francis’s at one point and then Barry got it. And then there’s marks in that; it was likely Bacon already had a copy of that catalogue and so off it goes, and so in that sense, there’s again maybe you can maybe you can count on one hand the number of items that have a significant paper-trail back here and then have marks that are obviously not in Bacon’s hand on them; and another thing people don’t remember about the whole process because it’s so boring is that from the very beginning, from day one of looking at this material, people said it was bad quality; David Mellor said that in his IMMA catalogue, and that it was clear that it was by more than one person; even its supporters form the get-go say it was all by Bacon and if they did say it was by Bacon, they said it was very poor quality Bacon. It’s very worrying when a collection can’t even have one supporter that says it’s all real. You end up having to come up with these ridiculous and then this happened and this happened; Peter Lacy, one of Bacon’s lovers, was brought in as a possible author, I mean he’s dead before most of the stuff is printed so that’s impossible. But it was a very unsexy process digging it all up, and I think I’m very glad we’ve got the result we have because as an Estate a lot of what we do is of, I think, huge value but it’s not provable how valuable it is but getting something that is not a Francis Bacon out of our national collection, the collection he donated his work to, so he clearly thought a great deal about is capital g Good in my opinion and I think something that he would be pleased we were doing.

Right. Can I ask you about liaison with the Tate about all this so you’ve done all this work, you did it, as you say, for the Francis Bacon Estate.


What correspondence did you have with the Tate in that process?

The Tate were very very helpful. When they accepted the items in 2004, they, even in their publicity statement about it, they said this material is going to be studied and made available online; nether of those things happened and I was the first person to look at each piece methodically.

First person ever to have done that?

Yes, every single piece. Marcel Finke did a very good piece about it in 2000 which was basically ignored but that was of a much smaller section. I mean I think the Tate implicitly knew, that’s even unkind of me, they knew, they’re smart people. In 2008 when the big Bacon show happened, the centenary, they didn’t include any of the Barry stuff and so they knew. So they made everything available and they were very encouraging, they, as a big institution, and it being part of a public collection, they obviously had to be careful and I very much respected their going through due process with it and it’s very unusual, as Martin points out, that something leaves a public collection and so you have to be surer than sure that you’re making the right decision but the stuff was accepted with a proviso and the proviso was never fulfilled and so it left it in art historical limbo this collection and I’m glad that someone did it, it’s great that it’s me but it could have been anyone and I don’t think it’s anything to do with my talent as an art historian I think literally any art historian looking at it would have come to the same conclusion but it was just hard work, just sloggy, horrible, repetitive work which means you can come forward with the data and that’s what people listen to and that’s what persuaded the Tate’s lawyers and our lawyers to even let me publish that. I’m not saying anything about him as a person or who did it, it’s just that it wasn’t Bacon and that’s the end of it.

Well, Martin and Sophie thank you so much for telling us about this today.

Martin: Thank you, Ben.  Sophie: Thank you.




   Francis Bacon in his 7 Reece Mews Studio (around 1970s) Prudence Cuming





Great Art Heists of History: A Break-in for Bacon




In the final iteration of our heist column, we take a look at a still

not fully resolved break-in and the taking of five Bacons






Art heists, by nature, typically target museums and galleries. They are where most masterpieces and priceless works are housed, their whereabouts not being a secret – the targeted loot is common knowledge for those that are inclined that way. And once the art pieces are selected for procurement, the heist itself can be planned and executed seamlessly, as museums and large galleries are places teeming with thousands of daily visitors. How is the half-asleep security guard to know that the solemn, non-descript man taking in the Van Gogh or Rembrandt isn’t plotting its forthcoming departure? But, of course, as we’ve learnt during the course of this column, not all art heists fit the mould. And for our final entry in Great Art Heists of History, we will be observing a heist not targeting the Louvre or the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, but a private residence. That doesn’t make the crime any less impressive, however, for 2015’s heist of five Francis Bacon paintings from an apartment in Madrid has gone down as the largest contemporary art heist in recent Spanish history.

José Capelo, a banker by trade, owned an apartment located in one of Madrid’s safest and most secure districts. And even though Capelo was away in London at the time of the theft, the criminals responsible for the robbery managed to pull it off without tripping any alarms or rousing suspicion in the neighbourhood. They also left no tangible evidence such as fingerprints. It was clear that the thieves behind the heist were professionals. The paintings were small to medium in size, making them easier to transport, and were worth a combined estimated value of 30 million euros. Even though the theft occurred in June 2015, it was initially kept under wraps by the authorities, and only made public in March 2016. Alongside the paintings, jewels and other items of value such as precious coins were taken from the premises.

Almost a year after the paintings were taken, in May 2016, seven suspects were apprehended in connection to the theft. Although this in itself was not a complete victory, as unlike the criminals, the paintings themselves still remained at large. The arrests were made after a tip-off was received by Spanish police from the Art Loss Register (ALR) in London – a team that specializes in tracking down stolen and missing artworks via the use of a sophisticated art database. The ALR had been contacted by an individual in Sitges, a coastal town near Barcelona, who asked the team to verify what could potentially be one of the stolen Bacon paintings. The team received photographs of the piece in question, which included one of Bacon’s signatures on the rear side, and verified it as indeed real. The photographs also were concluded to have been taken after the heist was pulled off. The Spanish police wasted no time in identifying the model of camera used to take the photographs, and traced it to a camera rental firm, where they identified the photographer responsible for the shots. This break in the case led to the first arrest being made. The other six swiftly followed – and a further three in January 2017.

In July 2017, three of the five stolen paintings were recovered due to the diligent combined work of the Art Loss Register and the Spanish police. The ALR’s director of recoveries and general counsel, James Ratcliffe, stated at the time of the paintings’ recovery:

“The return of the pictures is testament to the value of collaboration between the public and private sector. We gave the police this lead to help them track down these individuals. The Spanish police have done a fantastic job.”

The 2015 Francis Bacon theft is cloaked in secrecy. There is no detailed account of the break in or any subsequent attempt to sell the stolen paintings. But what makes this heist so tragic is the personal element involved. The thieves violated someone’s sanctuary, their place of security and comfort. Even more tragic is the connection the victim had to the artist. José Capelo was a dear friend of Bacon’s and reportedly the artist’s final lover before his death of a heart attack in Madrid in April 1992.

The men arrested in connection to the case remain accused of masterminding the heist and all are currently on parole. The two paintings not recovered remain missing. They are believed to be somewhere in Spain.

And that concludes in the final chapter in Great Art Heists of History.





                                                                                                                            José Capelo and Francis Bacon






Francis Bacon portrait unseen for 60 years to make auction debut



Study for Portrait of Lucian Freud was painted by British artist Bacon in 1964





A  Francis Bacon painting which has not been seen publicly for nearly six decades will be auctioned off later this month, having remained in the same private European collection for 40 years.

Titled Study for Portrait of Lucian Freud, it was painted by Bacon in 1964 and is based on a photograph of Freud, his contemporary. The photograph was taken in the same year by the artists’ mutual friend, John Deakin.

The painting will go on sale as part of Sotheby’s British Art: The Jubilee Auction on June 29. It was last seen on display in 1965, on show as the central panel of a large-scale triptych in a travelling exhibition to Hamburg and Stockholm.

It was also displayed in Dublin on its own in the same year. Bacon and Freud had been friends for 20 years prior to Bacon’s creation of Study for Portrait of Lucian Freud and shared a friendship for over 40 years before relations soured and ended in the mid-1980s.

Both artists painted each other on numerous occasions, with Freud often working from real-life and Bacon preferring photographs.

In Study for Portrait of Lucian Freud, Bacon used an image of Freud sitting on a bed with his arms outstretched, fists clenched and white sleeves rolled up above the elbows. The black-and-white photographs became Bacon’s primary source material, as he painted Freud obsessively in the 1960s.

Bacon kept the photographs, which were of great personal significance, with him for the rest of his life. They were rediscovered torn, crumpled and splattered with paint in his studio following his death in 1992, Sotheby’s said.

Speaking about the portrait ahead of its sale, senior director of contemporary art at Sotheby’s, Tom Eddison, said: “In this one single portrait we bear witness to a masterpiece, illuminating the deep and complex relationship between two titans of the 20th century.

“It is hard to think of two greater artists whose lives and works are so interwoven into the fabric of our consciousness than Francis Bacon and Lucian Freud.

“At the same time both muses and critics for each other, it was their friendship, respect, rivalry and deep infatuation with one another which ultimately fuelled their unequivocal artistic talents.

“Executed with painterly bravura at the height of Bacon’s acclaim, here we see a portrait that pulsates with an intensity, a tension that mirrors the emotions which bonded these two sparring partners together for over four decades.

“Now, having remained completely unseen to the public for 57 years, this remarkable portrait will return to London as the star highlight of the summer auction season.” The portrait carries an estimate in excess of £35 million.

Along with Study for Portrait of Lucian Freud, Sotheby’s British Art: The Jubilee Season sale will also include further highlights such as Banksy’s portrait of Sir Winston Churchill, a sculpture by Dame Barbara Hepworth, David Hockney’s almost four-metre wide tranquil portrayal of Woldgate Woods, L.S. Lowry’s A Town Square, J.M.W Turner’s view of London and Flora Yukhnovich’s Boucher’s Flesh.

The live-streamed auction will begin at 5pm on June 29.





                                                                              Francis Bacon’s Study for Portrait of Lucian Freud, 1964, is estimated to reach in excess of £34m








British Art: The Jubilee Auction



LOT 10  |  29 JUNE 2022  17:00 BST  |  LONDON



Francis Bacon




Study for Portrait of Lucian Freud



Property of a Distinguished European Collector



SOLD: 43,336,000 GBP





Marlborough Fine Art Ltd., London

The Hon. Colin Tennant, London 

Galleria Galatea, Turin

Private Collection, Europe

Acquired from the above by the present owner in 1982-83




Lorenza Trucchi, Francis Bacon, Milan, 1975, no. 94, illustrated

Exh. Cat., Paris, Centre Georges Pompidou, Francis Bacon, 1996, p. 61, illustrated

David Sylvester, Looking Back at Francis Bacon, London, 2000, pp. 113-114 (text)

Martin Harrison, Ed., Francis Bacon: Catalogue RaisonnéVolume III, 1958-71, London, 2016, p. 753, no. 64-06, illustrated in color

Sebastian Smee, “Freud & Bacon,” Art of Rivalry: Four Friendships, Betrayals, and Breakthroughs in Modern Art, London, 2016, p. 85 (text)

David Dawson, Ed., Lucian Freud: A Life, London, 2019, p. 109, illustrated in colour




Hamburg, Kunstverein, Francis Bacon: Gemälde 1945-65, January – February 1965, n.p., no. 53 (text)

Stockholm, Moderna Museet, Francis Bacon: Målningar 1945-1964, February – April 1965, n.p., no. 55, illustrated

Dublin, Municipal Gallery of Modern Art, Francis Bacon: Paintings 1945 – 65, April – May 1965, n.p., no. 50 (text)


Catalogue Note

Executed in 1964, Study for Portrait of Lucian Freud exemplifies an iconic pairing of two of the most significant painters within the canon of twentieth-century art. Last seen by the public during a travelling exhibition in Hamburg, Stockholm and Dublin between January and May 1965, the present work is testament to Francis Bacon’s capacity to provoke emotion and capture in paint the complexities of the human psyche. Study for Portrait of Lucian Freud illuminates a powerful dialogue rarely matched in history: The great friendship and epochal rivalry between Bacon and Freud that lasted from 1944 until the apex of their artistic sparring in the mid-1980s. Though their visual styles differed considerably throughout their respective oeuvres, both painters were deeply committed to the human figure. They sat for each other on multiple occasions; Bacon painted Freud fourteen times between 1964 and 1971, in a combination of two small panels, four large panels (one destroyed), two small triptychs, three large triptychs (of which the present work was part) and part of larger compositions. Indeed, the present painting was originally part of one of only three full-length triptychs measuring 1.9 metres in height, depicting a restless Freud in alternating poses within differing architectural spaces. Study for Portrait of Lucian Freud is only comparable in its excellence to Bacon’s masterpieces Double Portrait of Lucian Freud and Frank Auerbach (1964, Moderna Museet, Stockholm), Three Studies for Portrait of Lucian Freud (1966, Private Collection), and Three Studies of Lucian Freud (1969, Private Collection).

Bacon and Freud became close friends towards the end of the Second World War and were introduced by the English painter Graham Sutherland. As Freud later recalled, "I said rather tactlessly to Graham ’who do you think is the best painter in England?' he said 'Oh, someone you’ve never heard of; he’s like a cross between Vuillard and Picasso; he’s never shown and he has the most extraordinary life; we sometimes go to dinner parties there" (Lucian Freud quoted in: Exh. Cat., London, Tate Britain, William Feaver, Lucian Freud, 2002, p. 26). Bacon and Freud spent time in each other’s west London studios, they had dinner nearly every night for a lengthy period and frequented the great restaurants, bars and clubs of Soho together with friends such as Frank Auerbach, John Deakin, Michael Andrews, Timothy Behrens, Stephen Spender and Henrietta Moraes. Indeed, writer Daniel Farson recalled Bacon and Freud as being inseparable throughout the 1950s and 1960s, and Lady Caroline Blackwood remembered having dinner with Bacon nearly every night for the duration of her marriage to Freud, which lasted until 1959 (Caroline Blackwood quoted in: Michael Peppiatt, Francis Bacon Anatomy of an Enigma, London, 1996, pp. 192-93). In his recent memoir Michael Peppiatt recalled these lively, raucous dinners: “Lucian also clowns around, specially for Francis. One of his favourite turns is to pick up the restaurant bill when it comes, give it a cursory look and then pretend to faint, falling sideways on the banquette like Charlie Chaplin, while Francis chuckles and writes out a cheque… He is quite funny in an ironic way, with his lightly inflected patter doing quick pirouettes around the people he describes, but I think he is in awe of Francis, or even in love with him. But then I suppose most of us are, whether it’s Lucian or George or me, Sonia Orwell or models like Henrietta Moraes, or Miss Beston, who looks after everything to do with Francis at the Marlborough gallery… He is the point, whether we know it or not, around which we all turn” (Michael Peppiatt, Francis Bacon in Your Blood: A Memoir, London 2015, pp. 40-41).

Bacon executed his first portrait of Freud in 1951, Portrait of Lucian Freud (currently in the collection of the Whitworth Art Gallery, London) and would thereafter employ black and white photographs of Freud taken by their mutual friend John Deakin as source imagery. The figure’s pose in the present work is based on a photograph Deakin took of Freud sitting on a bed in 1964, the very same year the present work was executed. In the photograph Freud sits with his arms outstretched behind him, his fists clenched and white sleeves rolled up above the elbows. Freud’s pose in the present painting mirrors this position almost precisely. Bacon’s paintings of Freud from the 1960s were, in the words of Freud biographer William Feaver, “all closely informed by Deakin’s photographs of him, were systematically dramatised in the making. Bacon amplified the feel of shapes, exaggerating how it feels to sit, to slump, or to fidget to avoid a crick in the neck and cramp behind the knee. He loved a good whiplash assertion of fellow feeling. This often involved interchanged body parts” (William Feaver, The Lives of Lucian Freud: Fame 1968-2011, London 2020, p. 588). Bacon’s frenetic emerald green, pink and white brushwork in the face of Freud on the surface of the present painting exemplifies this sense of dynamic, visceral movement – or whiplash – as Freud’s head appears to swivel quickly to the side, his body bent forward in tense aggression. From the 1960s onwards, Deakin would produce several photographic series of Bacon’s friends and lovers, among them Freud, Peter Lacy, George Dyer, Isabel Rawsthorne, and Henrietta Moraes. Through the medium of Deakin’s photographs, Freud became a recurrent subject of Bacon’s paintings throughout the 1960s, and indeed one of the most significant.

The threatening pose of the sitter with his fists clenched is unique and rare among the large-scale portraits of Freud painted during this period. In the triptychs Three Studies of Lucian Freud (1969) and Three Studies for Portrait of Lucian Freud (1966) Freud is seen equally restless and agitated, yet his positions are seemingly insecure and protected – legs crossed, arms folded, his body always angled slightly away from the viewer. In contrast, the present work illuminates Freud at his most confident, his chest bare and body open facing directly towards the viewer; Bacon’s thick brushwork shows Freud’s face spectacularly distorted, yet his eyes regard the viewer directly in a visceral glare. Bacon has positioned his subject directly in the centre of the composition, the viewer unable to escape Freud’s intense stare. It is no surprise therefore that Bacon’s powerful rendering of his friend and artistic foe in the present painting formed the central panel of the original triptych, a seminal anchor for the outer panels. Depicting Lucian Freud in a steady progression of nuanced poses, the triptych was broken up shortly after the 1965 travelling exhibition to Hamburg, Stockholm and Dublin, and the panels are now described as individual works in the artist’s catalogue raisonné, numbered 64-05, 64-06 and 64-07 respectively. The left panel, exemplifying Freud reclined towards the left side of the composition, remains in a private collection, while the right panel, showing the figure sitting to the right of the composition with his hand hovering around his face, resides in the collection of the Israel Museum, Jerusalem. The two outer panels show Freud illuminated by suspended light bulbs which seem to glow against Bacon’s stark black ground.

The thick bands of exuberant and alternating colour on the surface of the present work unquestionably reveal the influence of the expansive colour-field canvases of Barnett Newman and Mark Rothko, which Bacon would have seen at The New American Painting exhibition at the Tate Gallery in 1959. The broad, horizontal bands of black and sea green evoke Barnett Newman’s sublime vertical stripe or ‘zip’ paintings, such as Abraham (1949) and Concord (1948) which were both included in the 1959 Tate show. Such colouristic compositions clearly held enduring appeal for Bacon and the bands of colour on the surface of Study for Portrait of Lucian Freud help create an illusion of depth. Here, perspective is simplified into a confined, flattened space, the bench painted with swathes of rich sea green and positioned against a matte black ground. In rich blue and green hues, the lower third of the composition is thickly worked, and the imprint of corduroy can be seen across this highly textured area; Bacon employed corduroy as a painting material throughout his oeuvre, and the texture can be found on the door of his Reese Mews studio, which suggests the he applied the oil paint from the tube first to the studio door, and then printed the corduroy and set it against the canvas. These painterly passages recall the abstracted, spatially ambiguous compositions of Monet’s water lilies in an instantly recognisable colour palette of blue, green and lilac. As Martin Harrison writes in the artist’s catalogue raisonné, “The textured carpet is the closest Bacon came to reprising Monet’s Nymphéas” (Martin Harrison, ed., Francis Bacon: Catalogue RaisonnéVolume III, 1958-71, London, 2016, p. 752). Bacon’s gestural daubs of oil paint are accented by flecks of white, the impressionistic surface fully recalling Monet’s celebrated triptychs such as Water Lilies (1914-26) now in the collection of The Museum of Modern Art, New York.

Bacon’s influence on Freud’s life and work was profound. As Freud recounted early in their friendship, “I realised immediately that [Bacon’s] work related to how he felt about life. Mine on the other hand seemed very laboured. That was because there was a terrific amount of labour for me to do anything – and still is. Francis on the other hand, would have ideas, which he put down and then destroy and then quickly put down again. It was his attitude that I admired. The way he was completely ruthless about his own work. I think that Francis’s way of painting freely helped me feel more daring” (Lucian Freud quoted in: Richard Calvocoressi, Lucian Freud on Paper, New York 2009, p. 11). Critic Sebastian Smee further describes Bacon’s impact on Freud: “But now, under Bacon’s influence, he stops drawing entirely and begins to loosen up his paintwork. He sticks to his incredibly slow and arduous way of working. But, like Bacon, he incorporates chance and risk, he smears and displaces the face’s fixed features, he utilizes all the viscosity and latent energy of oil paint applied by the brush” (Sebastian Smee, The Art of Rivalry: Four Friendships, Betrayals & Breakthroughs in Modern Art, London 2016, p. 87). Study for Portrait of Lucian Freud thus exemplifies Bacon and Freud’s great mutual respect for one another and a mutual appreciation for each other’s work.

The present work dates from the most crucial period of Bacon’s career and life; he was gaining immense international recognition following a number of major museum exhibitions and his relationship with George Dyer was at full height. His artistic confidence throughout the 1960s is exemplified by the fact that some of his greatest self-portraits were executed during this highly successful and fruitful period of production. Painted obsessively, Freud’s likeness utterly dominates Bacon’s production. As resolutely indicated by this extremely rare and little-seen work, Lucian Freud and Francis Bacon fuelled each other’s extraordinary talent, two masters of modern art at the apex of their ground-breaking, technical prowess. Lucian Freud was known to have been an avid collector of Bacon’s work, with works such as Head (1951, now in the collection of the Cleveland Museum of Art), Two Figures (1953, Private Collection), Figure with Meat (1954, The Art Institute of Chicago, Chicago) and Study for Portrait II (After the Life Mask of William Blake) (1955, Tate, London) remaining in his collection until his death in 2011. The present work thus exudes a sense of friendship, respect, rivalry and fervour that immortalised Bacon and Freud’s deep infatuation with each other. A paragon of Francis Bacon’s encyclopaedic iconography and inimitable painterly style, Study for Portrait of Lucian Freud is a riveting masterpiece of the twentieth century.










Bacon and Freud: unseen portrait  

is glimpse into doomed friendship




Painting goes on show in the UK for the first time before expected £35 million sale






Lucian Freud’s second wife, the writer Lady Caroline Blackwood, once claimed she sat through dinner with her husband and Francis Bacon “more or less every night of my marriage to Lucian” which, inevitably perhaps, lasted just four years.

The buyer of Study for Portrait of Lucian Freud by Bacon of his then best friend in 1964, which is expected to sell for £35 million at auction later this month, may hope they can put up with the presence of two of Britain’s greatest contemporary artists for a little longer.

Art critics say that the oil painting, which will be exhibited in the UK for the first time before it goes under the hammer, reveals a softer side to an artist described as having a “pitiless sense of mankind.

“It’s a very admiring portrait in a way of Freud”, said Mark Stevens, co-author of Francis Bacon: Revelations. “We don’t often think of Bacon as a person who paints admiring sorts of portraits, but I think this is a portrait of focus and determination.”

It offers a glimpse into a doomed friendship forged in the pubs and clubs of 1950s Soho, and is based on a photograph taken by John Deakin, one of their close bohemian circle.

“They were actually inseparable from about the late 40s throughout the 50s and even into the early 60s. And Lady Caroline was correct,” says Bacon’s biographer Annalyn Swan. “When they were both in the Colony Room [a Soho club] they only saw each other, they only wanted to gravitate to each other, to talk to each other, and excluded everyone else.

“It was sort of a partnership of the two of them. And what they had to say about art mattered most. Bacon admired Freud’s eye and Freud admired Bacon’s.”

In the painting, which was originally part of a triptych, Bacon has “planted this figure on the bench, and it’s as if he’s screwed him on to the bench with such force that his head almost seems to twist. To me, it’s a picture that captures a man of will, focus, determination, and a person resolute on dominating his body in achieving what he wants,” Stevens said.

Despite the pair’s friendship creating an “unbreakable rhyme in a room”, many found their self-obsession “insufferable”.

Bacon and Freud were so close that there were rumours the pair were sleeping together. Stevens and Swan said this was unlikely but the “friendship did have this sort of deep quasi-erotic tone, not overtly sexual, but sensual”.

The two artists fell out after 1974 when Lucian Freud’s show at the Hayward Gallery transformed him into an international star, with Bacon left feeling like their relationship was permanently altered.

“Bacon suddenly had to see Freud in a new light. Freud had always been the one who hadn’t gotten all the acclaim and the sales . . . And so there began to be a strain and a shadow in this relationship,” Swan said.

Aside from jealousy, the two objected to each other’s sexual tastes. Freud couldn’t understand Bacon’s love of the East End world and his relationship with George Dyer, a Cockney from a well-known crime family. “He shared it to a certain extent, but certainly not in the bedroom. And then Bacon, for his part, disliked Freud’s social-climbing,” Swan said.

However, this painting created ten years earlier was a “testament” to their friendship and one of the first of Bacon’s mature oil portraits. Despite the feud, the pair still met for intimate breakfasts into the 80s, with Freud arriving at Bacon’s nearby studio in his Bentley to pick him up.

The work has been in the collection of a private European owner for 40 years and its existence only became widely known in 2016 when a colour photo was included in a catalogue of Bacon’s work. It will go on public display at a gallery in New Bond Street from Thursday of next week.

Bella Freud, a fashion designer, and Lucian’s daughter, said last year: “I was rather disappointed that they weren’t friends when I then started spending more time with my father, and sitting for him in the late 70s. When I asked him why he fell out with Francis, he said “because his work went off.”

“But I am sure there was more to it than that, because they had been so close and obviously seemed to love each other. Francis was clearly somebody who he adored and admired. And there weren’t many people my father talked about in that way.

“The things he repeated about him were just dazzling, utterly disarming and breathtakingly wonderful, and silencing because of their brilliance. I imagine he must have missed that when he stopped being friendly with him.”

Tom Eddison, senior director of contemporary art at Sotheby’s, said it was “rare” for a previously unseen Bacon portrait to come up for sale. “Executed with painterly bravura at the height of Bacon’s acclaim, here we see a portrait that pulsates with an intensity, a tension that mirrors the emotions which bonded these two sparring partners together for over four decades.

“Now, having remained completely unseen to the public for 57 years, this remarkable portrait will return to London as the star highlight of the summer auction season.”






                                   Bacon’s Study for Portrait of Lucian Freud, 1964, is expected to sell for £35 million at auction this month






Francis Bacon portrait of Lucian Freud expected


to sell for over £35m at auction





Painting, based on black and white photograph, last exhibited in 1965 as part of a triptych






A Francis Bacon portrait of Lucian Freud not seen in public since it was first exhibited 57 years ago is to be auctioned with an estimated price of more than £35m.

Sotheby’s on Wednesday announced what is believed to be the most valuable contemporary work to be offered in London in almost a decade.

Study for Portrait of Lucian Freud was painted in 1964 and shows Freud with his chest bare and face monstrous and mangled, sitting on a hard bench with his arms outstretched and his fists clenched.

It is based on a black and white photograph taken by the two artists’ mutual friend John Deakin and shines light on a friendship and rivalry that was incredibly intense, but ultimately incredibly bitter.

The painting was the central panel in a triptych exhibited in 1965 in a travelling exhibition to Hamburg, Stockholm and Dublin. With Bacon’s consent, the triptych was broken up, with the left-hand panel now in a private collection and the right-hand one in the Israel Museum in Jerusalem.

Bacon and Freud met in 1944, introduced by the painter Graham Sutherland. They became instant friends and in the 50s and 60s they would see each other almost every day, both in each other’s studios as well as eating and drinking in Soho’s most celebrated haunts.

The Guinness heiress Caroline Blackwood once said she remembered having dinner with Bacon every night for the five-year duration of her marriage to Freud in the 50s.

Freud was the sitter in 1951 for Bacon’s first identifiable portrait of an individual. He went on to paint Freud more than any other person, save himself.

By the 80s they were drifting apart because of petty rows and jealousies, with Freud clearly tiring of Bacon.

Freud’s daughter, Bella, said of the feud: “I was rather disappointed that they weren’t friends when I then started spending more time with my father and sitting for him in the late 70s. When I asked him why he fell out with Francis, he said ‘because his work went off’. But I am sure there was more to it than that, because they had been so close and obviously seemed to love each other.

“Francis was clearly somebody who he adored and admired. And there weren’t many people my father talked about in that way. The things he repeated about him were just dazzling, utterly disarming and breathtakingly wonderful, and silencing because of their brilliance. I imagine he must have missed that when he stopped being friendly with him.”

Bacon’s remark on the fizzling of the friendship, told by a smiling Freud to William Feaver, his biographer, was: “She’s left me after all this time. And she’s had all these children just to prove she’s not homosexual.”

The work has been in the same private collection for 40 years and will go on public display at Sotheby’s galleries in New Bond Street London from 23-29 June.

It will be auctioned on 29 June in a sale titled British Art: The Jubilee Season. Other works include Banksy’s portrait of Winston Churchill with a lime green Mohican, estimated at £4m-£6m; and David Hockney’s almost 4-metre wide portrayal of Woldgate Woods.








Austrian Billionaire Heidi Goëss-Horten Has Died at Age 81,

Just Days After Opening Her Private Museum in Vienna




The collector owned some 700 artworks.



BY SARAH CASCONE    |   PEOPLE   |   NEWS   |   ARTNET   |   TUESDAY, JUNE 14, 2022



Austrian billionaire Heidi Goëss-Horten died on Sunday at her home on Lake Wörthersee, just days after opening her private museum in Vienna. She was 81.


“It is with great regret and in deep mourning that we have to give news of the completely unexpected death of our patron and benefactor Heidi Goëss-Horten,” read a statement from the Heidi Horton Collection.


In honor of Goëss-Horten, admission to the museum—normally €15 ($15.60)—will be free through the weekend. In its first week, the institution attracted some 800 daily visitors, according to Artnews.


Born Heidi Jelinekin Vienna in 1941, Goëss-Horten met her first husband, department store magnate Helmut Horten at a bar in 1959. She was just 19 and he was 51, and in 1966 they were married. Together, they began building what became a nearly billion-dollar art collection in the 1970s.


Horten died in 1987, leaving Goëss-Horten a $1 billion fortune, which allowed her to continue amassing her collection, with a focus on Expressionism and American Pop art. At the time of her death, Goëss-Horten’s net worth was $2.9 billion, which put her at 1,040 on the list of the world’s wealthiest people, according to Forbes. When she died, Goëss-Horten had a collection of some 700 artworks.


In 1996, Goëss-Horten notably spent $22 million in a single week on works by Francis Bacon, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, and Paul Klee at Sotheby’s, The New York Times reported.


Agnes Husslein-Arco, then managing director of Sotheby’s Austria, served as Goëss-Horten’s art advisor, and was eventually tapped to direct the Heidi Horton Collection.


It wasn’t until 2018 that Goëss-Horten finally shared her holdings with the world, in the critically acclaimed exhibition “Wow! The Heidi Horten Collection” at Vienna’s Leopold Museum. It became the museum’s most-visited show of all time, and inspired the collector to create a permanent venue to showcase her collection.


“I knew after the first public presentation of my collection that I wanted to preserve the works for posterity and share a treasure with people that has been with me in my private life for many years and given me such happiness,” Goëss-Horten told Artnews.


The high-profile project invited greater scrutiny of Goëss-Horten’s finances. In 2020, she commissioned a report from historian Peter Hoeres that found that her husband “Helmut Horten benefited from the economic circumstances provided by the Nazi state” in the form of confiscated Jewish-owned department stores, according to The Art Newspaper.


In 2018 and 2019, Goëss-Horten donated nearly €1 million ($1.04 million) to the conservative Austrian People’s Party, but in amounts small enough not to be publicly reported, according to Der Standard. Her lawyer maintained she did not break any laws, and Goëss-Horten said she would no longer make political donations.


But any controversy appears to have failed to dampen enthusiasm for Goëss-Horten’s new museum. The venue, originally an annex of the Albrecht Palais and the offices of Archduke Friedrich, underwent a gut renovation by Next Enterprise Architects Vienna ahead of its transformation into a museum.


The building, rechristened the Palais Goëss-Horten, now features three floors of gallery space, with two futuristic floating platforms.


For its inaugural exhibitions, the 16,000-square-foot museum is showcasing a selection of 50 works by the likes of Lucio Fontana, Robert Rauschenberg, Dan Flavin, Andy Warhol, and Damien Hirst. But there is also a focus on less established figures, particularly emerging and mid-career Austrian artists, with new commissions by Constantin Luser and Andreas Duscha.


“I am proud, with my collection and the construction of the museum,” Goëss-Horten said in a statement ahead of the museum’s opening, “to have created something lasting, which future generations will also be able to experience when they visit my museum and take joy in the art that has given me such joy for so long.”



















The Brooklyn Museum Sold a Francis Bacon Pope in 2019 for $6.6 Million.

Helly Nahmad Is Selling It at Art Basel for More Than Twice That




The 1958 canvas was offered for $15 million.






The Nahmad family is known for bringing some of the most expensive and significant modern artworks to international art fairs such as Art Basel. Inevitably, the Picassos, Rothkos, and Calders displayed on their booths act as bellwether for the high-end art market.

 Some years, these paintings linger. Some years, they go fast. This year is a fast one.

The latest edition of Art Basel, which opened to VIPs on Tuesday, is an example of the booming market. By the end of the day, Helly Nahmad gallery sold its Francis Bacon Pope painting, according to a representative.

 The 1958 canvas was offered for $15 million, and the sale price wasn’t disclosed. Multiple people considered the work, according to the gallery. It was the second-highest known price at the fair. Earlier in the day, Hauser & Wirth reported the $40 million sale of an 11-foot-tall Spider by Louise Bourgeois.

You may recall the ghostly Pope from Sotheby’s contemporary art evening auction in November 2019, just before the pandemic struck. At the time, it was consigned by the Brooklyn Museum to raise money for its collections fund. Estimated at $6 million to $8 million, it fetched $6.6 million, and was bought by the Helly Nahmad gallery.

The $15 million list price represents a considerable markup over just a few years—127 percent, to be exact.

There’s been a steady stream of high-end Bacon paintings at auction. Two years ago, billionaire Sotheby’s owner Patrick Drahi was the winner of Francis Bacon’s Triptych Inspired by the Oresteia of Aeschylus (1981), which fetched $84.6 million.

Earlier this year, star architect Norman Foster’s triptych fetched $51.2 million at Christie’s in London. Patrick De Pauw, a scion of a Belgian collecting family, sold Bacon’s Study for Red Pope 1962, 2nd Version 1971 (1971) for $46.3 million at Sotheby’s

Bacon’s auction record of $142.4 million was established in 2013 for Three Studies of Lucian Freud (in 3 parts).




                                           Francis Bacon Pope (1958). Courtesy of Sotheby’s.





A Secretive Austrian Collector Unveils a Long-Awaited Private Museum in Vienna







Back in 1996, the art market was left in shock after a single collector bought up $22 million worth of art at a Sotheby’s auction in London.

The buyer, who called in with a Vienna specialist with the house, was a “mysterious German-speaking collector,” The New York Times reported  at the time, and she had purchased pieces by Lucian Freud, Francis Bacon, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Marc Chagall, Paul Klee, and others all in one fell swoop, making herself a sensation almost overnight

That collector, The Times went on to reveal, was none other than Heidi Göess-Horten, the ex-wife of Helmut Horten, a Viennese department store owner with whom she began buying art. (She has since remarried two times.) Some years after Helmut’s death in 1987, a new passion for art collecting was ignited in Heidi, who currently owns 700 pieces and ranks on the ARTnews Top 200 Collectors list.

Now, in addition to those hundreds of artworks, she also owns a museum, the Heidi Horten Collection, which opened in Vienna earlier this month.

In a sense, Göess-Horten has even come full circle, naming Agnes Husslein-Arco, the Vienna Sotheby’s specialist who placed bids for her in 1996, as the museum’s director.

It is not the first time Göess-Horten’s collection has been seen in Vienna — that would be in 2018, when a survey of it opened at the Leopold Museum. But that exhibition came and went in a matter of six months, and the goal with the Heidi Horten Collection is to offer a permanent view of one of the country’s richest private collections, which has rarely been seen publicly.

“I knew after the first public presentation of my collection that I wanted to preserve the works for posterity and share a treasure with people that has been with me in my private life for many years and given me such happiness,” Göess-Horten told Artnet News in an email.

 “That’s why I see my museum as a place of discovery, of sensuous experience, of the joy of art—because that’s what art has been and still is for me: a vital source of joy!”

So far, according to those involved with the museum, the Viennese have indeed taken pleasure in visiting the museum, which has 16,145 square feet of exhibition space. Self-reported data from the museum say that at least 800 people visited each day during the space’s first week and, on Thursday, there were already crowds pouring in just 15 minutes after opening.

In some ways, this fervor from the public is a bit of a surprise, since Vienna is already packed with museums, among them the Albertina, mumok, the Kunsthalle Wien, and more, all of which are walking distance from the Heidi Horten Collection. But Husslein-Arco did not seem shocked that the museum already had such a large audience.

“The people love it,” she said.

Some coming to the exhibition are likely to arrive expecting some of the iconic works in Göess Horten’s collection, including paintings by Bacon and Roy Lichtenstein. Those paintings, as well as some of the other more famous ones owned by Göess-Horten, are still in her house, however. Instead, the spare opening hang at the museum, set across three pristine floors, is primarily devoted to emerging and mid-career artists, many of whom are Austrian.

“I did it on purpose,” Husslein-Arco said. “I wanted to show two things: that the collection keeps growing and that there is a younger art” in Göess-Horten’s holdings. She also wanted to foreground the architecture, by the Vienna-based firm ENTERprise architects.

The Heidi Horten Collection’s building seems small from its outside, but on the inside, it feels big. (The price to get in, at 15 euro per adult visitor, is hardly small either.) Two staircases appear to float over viewers’ heads, and there are large airy parts in which one can see right up to the roof.

This scale allows the museum to show grand works, most notably Constantin Luser’s Vibrosauria (2022), a 20-foot-tall sculpture of a female dinosaur that is crafted from brass instruments twisted together to form something like an armature. The sculpture can be played by up to 24 musicians at once. Meanwhile, the museum’s tearoom is itself a work of art by Markus Schinwald, who covered its walls in paintings of an old-school teahouse. Schinwald Photoshopped out any people who appeared in his source images, however, and anyone who inhabits the room is meant to effectively figure in their place.

More minimal pieces shine as well. A Dan Flavin sculpture composed of a fluorescent lighting tube propped against a corner gets a gallery to itself, as does Lili Reynaud-Dewar’s video Lady to Fox (2018), in which the artist, painted entirely red and wearing only a set of white sneakers, gyrates among a herd of sheep. That work stems from Göess-Horten’s longtime love of animals, which also informed her decision to buy works by Claude Lalanne, Lena Henke, and Ulrike Müller.

There’s enough blue-chip art to whet the palette of those wanting bigger names. Among the offerings are two paintings resulting from a collaborative effort by Andy Warhol and Jean-Michel Basquiat (plus a drawing by the latter working solo), two of the six Lucio Fontana paintings that Göess-Horten owns, a painting from Robert Rauschenberg’s beloved early ’60s period, and a painting made with dead butterflies by Damien Hirst

More works by stars like Franz Marc, Georg Baselitz, and Ernst Ludwig Kirchner are likely to figure in future shows, but it’s these lesser-known artists that speak to the depth of her collection. After all, the opening hang is just 50 works, or roughly 7 percent of her holdings.

“I am convinced that my collection contains treasures that are unmatched in Vienna, in Austria, even in Europe,” Göess-Horten said.




                           Heidi Göess-Horten   13 February 1941 – 12 June 2022





Tate returns a £20m slice of Francis Bacon





 Authenticity fears led to the rejection of a gift of sketches from the famous artist’s friend






Francis Bacon would probably have had a chuckle — but for those left to resolve the legacy of one of the 20th century’s most important painters it is no laughing matter. A long-running dispute over a “generous” gift to Tate from a friend of Bacon’s escalated yesterday after the gallery returned the 1,000-plus items and cast doubt on their authenticity.

It said “credible doubts about the nature and quality of the material” had been raised by art historians. The archive of documents and sketches purportedly from Bacon’s studio were donated to Tate in 2004 by Barry Joule, a gift estimated at the time to be worth about £20 million.

Joule, who said he had been Bacon’s chauffeur, friend and handyman for more than a decade before the artist’s death in 1992, said that Bacon had handed the items to him saying: “You know what to do with them.” After 2004, however, it seemed that Tate did not know what to do with them.

Sir Nicholas Serota, its director at the time, said the “generous gift will provide a fascinating insight into Bacon’s working practices”. The gallery said it would take as long as three years to study the material before it could be put on display. However, only a few items were exhibited. The Francis Bacon estate has continually cast doubts on the authenticity of the material.

Last year in a book, Francis Bacon: Shadows, Sophie Pretorius — the archivist of the estate’s collection — launched an attack on the Barry Joule Archive [BJA]. “The story of the material associated with Joule is riddled with exaggeration, half-truths and contradictions,” she wrote. “Bacon’s work is not easy to mimic. But the author of the items in the BJA made a stab at it.”

She said that while many of the sketches were drawn in charcoal, “no charcoal or charcoal marks were found in Bacon’s studio upon his death”. Joule at the time said he was “fuming” and would consider legal action.

He said the estate had only started questioning the authenticity of the material after he had declined its request to donate it to the Bacon Study Centre in Dublin in the 1990s. He has previously said the estate once accused him of having stolen the material. Joule also said last year that he was frustrated that Tate had failed to exhibit works from the archive.

In April of this year he said he was cancelling plans to donate a further 150 drawings, ten paintings, hundreds of photographs and more than 12 hours of taped conversations with Bacon which he said would instead go to Centre Pompidou in Paris.

“The Tate and Britain will be missing out on part of the nation’s art history of one of their most important painters,” he told The Observer. Bacon, who was born in Ireland but was based in London for most of his working life, is regarded as one of the 20th century’s most influential painters. In 2013 his triptych, Three Studies of Lucian Freud (1969) became the then most expensive artwork ever sold at auction after it fetched £89 million

Among the works that Tate is deaccessioning from its archive — a highly unusual move in Britain’s museum world — and returning to Joule are an album of overpainted sketches. Tate said the sketches were of “unknown authorship”, adding: “The gift has been researched by art historians, and this research has raised credible doubts about the nature and quality of the material.

“In itself, the material does not lend itself to any significant exhibition and any potential it held to improve the public’s understanding of Bacon’s art has been exhausted.”


Loud, drunk and desired

Francis Bacon, according to Tracey Emin, “just did whatever he wanted to do, drank whatever he wanted to drink, slept with whoever he wanted to sleep with” (David Sanderson writes). Her contemporary and fellow Bacon aficionado, Damien Hirst, meanwhile, was drawn to Bacon’s “very, very dark view of the world”.

Much of the darkness came from his formative years in Ireland where he grew up as the openly gay son of a horse breeder and was banished from his conservative family’s home aged 16.

Violence and sex became the markers of his life. Childhood horsewhippings from grooms and stable boys segued to fights with strangers on the streets of London; exploratory teenage sex progressed to sado-masochist relationships with a parade of lovers.

And all the time his star kept rising, with an enthralled art market and appreciative curators. All in all, there are many reasons he was described as the “loudest, rudest, drunkest, most sought-after British artist of the 20th century”.

Following his death in 1992 aged 82, his star continued to glow, with a procession of auction records and prestigious exhibitions. The Royal Academy this year devoted an exhibition entirely to the artist’s relationship with animals.




                                                           Barry Joule with Francis Bacon at the home of the artist Richard Hamilton in June 1982






Tate to return Francis Bacon archive—once valued at £20m

—to donor who was close friend of the artist




A thousand documents and sketches from the Barry Joule collection to be

deaccessioned by London museum over attribution doubts






Tate is to deaccession a thousand documents and sketches said to have come from the studio of Francis Bacon.  The Art Newspaper can report that they are to be returned to Barry Joule, a close friend of the artist, who donated them in 2004.

At the time of the donation the material was apparently valued at around £20m and was described as probably the Tate Archive’s most important acquisition ever.

A Tate statement issued today records that the Joule donation has been “researched by art historians, and this research has raised credible doubts about the nature and quality of the material”.

The statement explains: “The material does not lend itself to any significant exhibition and any potential it held to improve the public’s understanding of Bacon’s art has been exhausted. It has therefore been considered unsuitable for retention in Tate Archive. In the first instance, it has been offered back to the donor, in line with the donor’s wishes.”

Joule has consistently and robustly defended the authenticity of the material.

Canadian-born Joule had been a London neighbour of Bacon’s and developed a friendship with him in 1978. He helped Bacon in various ways up until the artist’s death in 1992. Joule came into possession of a considerable quantity of paper material from Bacon’s London studio at 7 Reece Mews in South Kensington.

The studio material donated to Tate includes 800 magazine and newspaper cuttings, some bearing pencil and pen marks and daubs of paint. There were also 39 photographs of Bacon and his friends, books and other documents. Finally, there is the so-called “X Album” of overpainted sketches which Tate describes as “of unknown authorship”.


The collection

When Tate accepted the 2004 gift it was described in glowing terms: “The trustees of Tate have acquired an archive collection from the studio of Francis Bacon, one of the most important painters of the 20th century, thanks to the generous gift of Barry Joule, a friend of the artist… Tate hopes the acquisition and further study of this material will enable scholars to resolve remaining issues about Bacon’s working practice.”

But since then specialists from the Francis Bacon Estate have studied the material, ending with a negative conclusion. An essay on the donation by the estate’s archivist, Sophie Pretorius, was included in their publication Francis Bacon: Shadows, released in June last year.

Pretorius quotes Andrew Wilson, until last year a senior Tate curator, who believed that the hand(s) that applied the marks “may not have included Bacon to any substantial degree”. She herself concludes that “for scholars to devote time to analysing a collection of works not by Francis Bacon is a waste of resources”.

It is certainly unusual for Tate to deaccession. Under a Parliamentary act, the gallery is normally prohibited from deaccessioning artworks. Although this does not apply to archival material, the gallery follows the same procedure when this is considered, a Tate spokeserson says.

Tate’s trustees have now deemed that the Joule material "can be disposed of without detriment to the interests of students or other members of the public”—and have decided to offer it back to Joule.

After holding the Joule archive for nearly 20 years, a Tate spokesperson says: “Credible doubt has been cast on the majority of the material. While it remains unproven as to whose hand the markings on this material might be attributed, the addition that it represents to the public understanding and enjoyment of Bacon’s art has been exhausted and is no longer suitable for retention in the collection.”

Joule has voiced frustration with Tate’s failure to exhibit his donation, which he insists is fully authentic. In April he told The Observer that he has cancelled plans to donate hundreds more items from Bacon’s studio to Tate. Instead he intends to offer them to the archives of the Centre Pompidou in Paris. “The Tate and Britain will be missing out on part of the nation’s art history of one of their most important painters. I turn my back on the Tate for ever.”




          Francis Bacon in his studio in London in 1974   Photo Michael Holtz





Tate returning Francis Bacon archive

after researchers raise ‘credible doubts’




The collection was donated in 2004 by Barry Joule, a close friend of the artist.






The Tate is returning an archive of documents and sketches purportedly from the studio of Francis Bacon, saying its researchers raised “credible doubts about the nature and quality of the material”.

Donated in 2004 by Barry Joule, a close friend of the artist, the collection includes almost 1,000 items and was reportedly valued at £20 million at the time of acquisition. As first reported by The Art Newspaper, a statement from the Tate said the gallery had offered the material back to Mr Joule after concluding it “does not lend itself to any significant exhibition”.

The gallery also said that any potential the material held to improve public understanding of Bacon’s art “has been exhausted”. Of the 1,000 pieces donated, around 800 are magazine and newspaper cuttings, some bearing incidental marks or daubs of paint.

It also includes 39 photographs of Bacon and his friends, a selection of books and other documents and an album of overpainted sketches the Tate concluded were of “unknown authorship”. Bacon, known for his bold and shocking figurative style, died aged 82 in 1992.

Among his most famous and recognisable works were 1966’s Portrait of George Dyer Talking and 1953’s Study after Velázquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X. The Tate said: “Francis Bacon is one of the most celebrated and influential British artists of all time. “Tate has consistently championed Bacon’s art for over half a century, having staged his first ever retrospective exhibition in 1962, and today Tate’s collection holds several of his most renowned paintings which are regularly on public display.

“In 2004 Barry Joule, a friend and neighbour of Francis Bacon in his later years, offered Tate a body of archival material which had recently come to light. Tate Archive accepted the donation as ‘material relating to Francis Bacon’s studio at 7 Reece Mews, London’ and it was catalogued and made available for further study. Since then, some items from the gift – photographs and written material – have featured in an archive display and been made available for publication. The entire gift has also been researched by art historians, and this research has raised credible doubts about the nature and quality of the material.”

“In itself, the material does not lend itself to any significant exhibition and any potential it held to improve the public’s understanding of Bacon’s art has been exhausted. It has therefore been considered unsuitable for retention in Tate Archive. In the first instance, it has been offered back to the donor, in line with the donor’s wishes.”

Mr Joule has repeatedly defended the authenticity of the material, which has been questioned in recent years by the Francis Bacon Estate. In August 2021, he threatened to cancel the gift and accused the Tate of reneging on a pledge to stage exhibitions of the material, according to The Observer.

Canadian-born Mr Joule was living near to Bacon’s home and studio at 7 Reece Mews, west London, when they met in 1978 and became close friends. He helped Bacon with his work until the artist’s death in 1992, when he came into possession of a collection of material said to be from the London studio.

Announcing the donation in January 2004, the Tate hailed “the generous gift of Barry Joule, a friend of the artist”. It said: “Tate will undertake to study, photograph and catalogue the collection over the next three years, before displaying these items and making them available for loan.”

However, since then specialists from the Francis Bacon Estate have studied the material and come to negative conclusions, even questioning its authorship.





                                                                                                          Francis Bacon at the Tate Gallery in 1985 London






Tate to Deaccession Francis Bacon Archive

Over Authenticity Concerns







In an unexpected turn, the Tate announced Wednesday that it will deaccession a vast archive of materials from Francis Bacon’s estate donated by a close confidant of the Irish-born painter, after researchers raised questions about the gifts’ authenticity. 

The move comes just two months after Barry Joule, a British man who befriended Bacon in 1978 while living in London, rescinded his initial plan to donate another group of works to the museum after it failed to exhibit the disputed archive, which he donated nearly two decades ago. Joule, who is said to have been in contact with the artist until his death in 1992, threatened to take legal action against the Tate over the rift.

In 2004, Joule donated the near 1,200-item archive spanning drawings to photographs from Bacon’s studio that was worth an estimated £20 million ($25.1 million) to the Tate. At the time, the Tate said it would catalogue the donation over a period of three years before making it available to be exhibited, but the promised public showcase never materialized. The museum said it is now offering the archive back to the donor — a move that is rare, but legally permissible for U.K. institutions.

In a statement first obtained by the Art Newspaper, the Tate said the Joule archive materials had been “researched by art historians, and this research has raised credible doubts about the nature and quality of the material,” continuing that “any potential it held to improve the public’s understanding of Bacon’s art has been exhausted.” Joule has denied any claims that the archive contains inauthentic materials.

In April, reports of the ongoing row escalated when it was revealed that doubts had been cast by scholars over Joule’s donation, known formally as the Barry Joule Archive (BJA). Last September, the Bacon Estate published Francis Bacon: Shadows, which quotes a former Tate curator Andrew Wilson as saying “the hand/s that applied the marks to the material may not have included Bacon to any substantial degree.”

Joule said he intended instead to donate a second grouping of Bacon’s works—around 150 drawings, 10 paintings and other archival materials including documents and audio recordings — to the national archives of the Centre Pompidou in France after falling out with the London institution and had already begun negotiations. Bacon was the subject of a retrospective focused on his literary influences in 2019 at the French museum, titled “Bacon: Books and Painting.”

Whether or not the Tate’s move to jettison the long-held archive will affect the ongoing negotiations between Joule and the Pompidou to receive the other tranche of works is still unclear. A representative for the Center Pompidou did not immediately respond to ARTnews’ request for comment.





The Tate is returning Barry Joule’s Francis Bacon archive






 The Tate announced on Wednesday  (8 June) that it will deaccession around 1,000 sketches and documents said to have come from the studio of Francis Bacon by his friend and neighbour Barry Joule, who donated the archive to the Tate in 2004.

At the time of the gift, the archive was valued at around £20m, but in a statement today, the institution revealed that art-historical research into Joule’s collection has ‘raised credible doubts about the nature and quality of the material’, which has now been offered back to the donor.

 Joule has defended the authenticity of the material, and in the past has voiced frustrations with the Tate for not making use of the material in exhibitions; in April, he announced that he had cancelled plans to donate further items associated with Bacon to the museum, intending to offer them to the Pompidou instead.





Francis Bacon: Faces & Figures







Francis Bacon’s biography may help us to understand the artist, but can explain nothing about his art. That is, from the biographer’s perspective, the work only exists to reveal something about Bacon’s tumultuous life. To learn that such and such a figure is George Dyer, a lover, or Henrietta Moraes, a friend, is at worst anecdotal gossip and at best historical fact.

To deal with Bacon as artist, to deal with this extraordinary panoply of ten paintings assembled here, we have to deal with a number of undeniable facts. Bacon does not represent people as they are: his bodies or faces are contorted, his colors are unnatural, and his disregard for verisimilitude is total. To deal with Bacon’s work, we must equip ourselves with an aesthetic of ugliness.

Umberto Eco’s 2007 essay “On Ugliness” establishes the ugly as an artistic category, one that traffics in rejection, disgust, lack of harmony, irrationality. Notions such as these, and not the names of Bacon’s sitters, explain our unending fascination with Bacon, revealing why the emotional and psychological reactions his paintings arouse in us far outweigh the importance of his drinking, gambling, and sexual proclivities.

If we do want to take into account a biographical fact about Bacon in looking at his work, it would be that he is not our contemporary. Born in 1909, before World War I, he comes from a remote, alien social and artistic milieu. It is precisely Bacon’s unabashed manipulation of “primitive art” elements, his affinities with Picasso, with the distortions and unnatural colors of Expressionism, with his reworking of the composition principles in seventeenth-century Dutch portraiture and genre paintings: all of that links him inextricably to a twentieth-century art that reveled in its links to art history.

The ten oils on canvas here, ranging from the astounding Man at a Washbasin (ca. 1954) to Study for Self-Portrait (1979), do not pretend to be a comprehensive presentation of Bacon’s long career. There are no biomorphic figures, no screaming popes—only explorations of figures within the confines of pictorial space. But that self-imposed limitation is a tremendous opportunity to look closely at superb examples of Bacon’s work.

Two studies come to the point: Three Studies for Portrait of George Dyer (on light ground) (1964) and Three Studies for a Portrait (1976). The six images are all 14 by 12, so despite the twelve-year distance between them, the two series share a genealogy that leads back to Van Dyck’s 1635 Charles I in Three Positions. That each portrait of the king is slightly different from the others may have appealed to Bacon, who also individualizes each of his images by torquing them in different ways and defacing them with swaths of paint. True, the Dyer images are slightly closer to reality than the 1976 studies, but the face in both instances is no longer human. In the 1976 triptych, the echo of Picasso’s mask faces in Demoiselles d’Avignon is palpable, and we are staring into an allegory we can never hope to fathom. Bacon leaves Picasso and his bordello far behind and focuses instead on the reality of grotesque distortion.

The same applies to Study of Henrietta Moraes Laughing (1969) and the three other portraits. The Moraes image is arresting because it might be a death mask, while the Study for a Head (1955), the largest of the portraits at 40 by 30 inches, constitutes a parodic version of a conventional portrait—a bank president perhaps now transformed into a leprous demon.

The other four works here, all on a larger scale, involve figures arranging themselves in space. Here Bacon takes cues from a host of antecedents: Goya, Ingres, and Manet, who all painted women reclining on divans. Man at a Washbasin (ca. 1954) takes up a Degas theme: a person washing themselves off. But Bacon reduces his figure to a ghostly presence, as if to draw attention away from the central figure to the composition itself: the rigorous geometry of a Dutch interior, static but animated by the nebulous figure.

 Figure in Movement (1972), the largest piece in the show at 78 by 58 inhces, is the culmination of Bacon’s aesthetic of the ugly. Again, a single, writhing figure isolated in a yellow space, perhaps a model on break reading a newspaper and moving around rather than posed. But the torsion and distortion contrast with the control Bacon imposes on the space, with its roomlike geometry enhanced by encasing rectangular outlines. The figure, as in the other two images of seated figures, is both in transit and fixed for all time, captured in an artistic experiment of simultaneity.

This is the way to truly experience Francis Bacon’s greatness: a dose large enough to tell us what Bacon was all about and small enough to remain comprehensible.

Alfred Mac Adam is Professor of Latin American literature at Barnard College-Columbia University. He is a translator, most recently of Juan Villoro’s Horizontal Vertigo (2021), about Mexico City.




                             Francis Bacon, Man at a Washbasin (ca. 1954) 







Bacon’s US$46.2 million Pope portrait











tops Sotheby’s New York evening sale







This season’s New York auction marathon came to a close with Sotheby’s US$210 million Contemporary Art Evening Sale.

Amongst 27 lots offered, only one was unsold, bringing in a total hammer price of US$181 million – higher than its presale low estimate of US$170 million.

The sale’s top lot was Francis Bacon’s Study of Red Pope 1962. 2nd Version 1971 – the only painting by the British figurative painter depicting both the Pope and his lover, George Dyer – which realised US$46.2 million after fees.

The auctioneer began soliciting bids at US$35 million and saw unenthusiastic reception from both telephone and floor bidders. The hammer was dropped at US$40 million, offered by Grégoire Billault, the chairman of Contemporary Art at Sotheby’s New York, for his client with paddle number 267.

One of the major British artists of the post-World War II period, Francis Bacon is widely recognized for his iconic – often unsettling and blatant – images of scathed and traumatized humanity.

Inspired by Diego Velázquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X, his renowned Papal portrait series, which he worked on for at least two decades, is no exception. Under his brushes, the benevolent, highly-respected Pope is casted as a victim of his own status, tortured by the weight of his authority.

Study of Red Pope 1962. 2nd Version 1971, the last painting in his Pope series, was originally created in 1962, when only Pope Innocent X was on the canvas. Later in 1971, he decided to rework the painting and placed his lover George Dyer next to the Pope, making it the only work by him that has both muses in the same composition.

Bacon’s relationship with George Dyer began in late 1963 in a pub in Soho. Dyer’s devotion to Bacon was fuelled by his admiration for Bacon’s intellect, power, and confidence. From the mid-1960s, Dyer became Bacon’s muse and was seen at every gallery opening.

However, their relationship soon went downhill due to Bacon’s tempestuous manner and increasingly destructive drinking. By 1971, Dyer had already attempted suicide on more than one occasion but saved by Bacon every time. At the Grand Palais in Paris in 1971, while Bacon was to be honoured with a major retrospective, Dyer was found dead from a drink and drugs overdose in the bathroom of the hotel.

According to literature and scholars, Pope Innocent X’s sister-in-law Olimpia Maidalchini Pamphilj was actually the power behind his papal throne. The two were rumoured to be having an affair; however, after the Pope’s death, Olimpia wouldn’t even pay for his burial but instead letting the body being dumped in a closet, where rats nibbled at it.

Was Bacon reminded of this story of Pope and decided to include his lover Dyer in his painting?





     Lot 115  |  Study of Red Pope 1962, 2nd Version 1971  |  Sold: US$46,284,500






Last of Bacon’s famous papal portraits 


auctioned for $46 million in New York






New York City, US, May 19 (EFE). The last of Francis Bacon’s famous papal portraits was sold on Thursday for $46 million at an auction of contemporary art at Sotheby’s in New York.

The sale of “Study of Red Pope 1962, 2nd version 1971,” which has been in private hands since 1973 and has a tragic history, took place five years after it failed to sell at Christie’s in London, which made an overly optimistic valuation.

The Irish-born modernist painter depicts a “haunting” encounter between the Pope and Bacon’s lover, George Dyer, who committed suicide two days before the work was unveiled to the public at a career-defining exhibition at the Grand Palais in 1971.

It is the last papal portrait of several dozen that Bacon painted, inspired by Diego Velázquez’s “Portrait of Pope Innocent X,” 1650, but despite its historical significance, it failed to fetch a price close to the artist’s most expensive painting, “Three Studies of Lucian Freud,” sold in 2013 for $142.4 million.

This Bacon painting’s selling price was closer to its minimum value of $40 million than to the maximum of $60 million predicted by Sotheby’s and that was the general tone of the auction, which had three dozen pieces, most of them paintings.

The next most valuable work was an untitled painting by the American Cy Twombly, of circular scribbles in wax on a dark gray background, which sold for $38 million.

Andy Warhol’s “Elvis,” in which rock-and-roll legend Elvis Presley is dressed as a gunslinger, raked in $21.6 million.

A huge painting by Ed Ruscha that had “Cold Beer Beautiful Girls” stenciled in white letters onto an image of clouds fetched $18.82 million, and David Hockney’s colorful “Grand Canyon III,” sold for $11.03 million.

Perhaps the only surprise was German artist Georg Baselitz’s record-breaking sculpture “Women of Dresden,” which was estimated at a maximum $4 million but sold for $11.24 million. EFE









The Thrill of Bringing Bacon to Moscow




James Birch recounts the fascinating journey of introducing Francis Bacon’s art

to Soviet Russia, including transvestites, the KGB, and political manoeuvring






Art history would be much more fun if it was all written like James Birch’s excellent Bacon in Moscow. The book is a ripping yarn about the author’s wild Cold War adventures as a young gallerist attempting to bring paintings by Francis Bacon to the Russian capital. Bacon in Moscow reads with the tension of a John le Carré spy story, vividly coloured with the fluid sensuality of scenes from Birch’s bohemian life set against the scenography of taut life in late Cold War Russia, which was ready to snap.

The story begins innocently enough in the early eighties, when an ambitious Birch set up his first gallery in London. To put it on the cultural map, he formed the crazy idea that he should take an exhibit of work by transvestite potter Grayson Perry, and the members of his eccentric “neo-naturist” group, a surrealist collective of body-painting nudists, to Moscow, thinking that this bizarre cultural mission might bring his gallery some notoriety. He travelled to Paris to follow an introduction to an unlikely Russian cultural diplomat, Sergei Klokov, a frightening but comical KGB agent who looked like a hairdresser but had the power to stop airplanes on the runway on their take-off approach and board them, to sweep aside murder, and to intimidate his countrymen with looks and gestures alone. In this first bizarre meeting, Klokov introduced Birch to a tall and beautiful young woman, Elena Khudiakova, who left the room several times, reappearing dressed in different outfits, attempting to impress Birch with her skill as a fashion designer. Dangerous, and self-obsessed, Klokov agreed to help Birch with papers to go to Moscow to scout venues for an exhibit.

Birch’s Moscow delivers as the grim, grey, and oppressive setting of the surreal Soviet dystopia of the 1980s, and his fluidly descriptive writing brilliantly carries the narrative on a vivid journey through a dreary series of cavernous, dirty, white galleries and into age-beaten hotels with suites subdivided into tiny and stinking rooms, miserable food, and worse waiters. As he was toured around the smoke-stained and vodka-fueled nightmare of declining communism, constantly chaperoned by KGB guides and translators, Birch realized that the Soviet art scene was not tuned for the decadent excesses of cross-dressing Perry and his louche pots, or naked body painters mocking bourgeois pretentions – what need, when there was no bourgeoisie to mock? Instead, he suggested bringing Russian artists to Britain. Klokov promptly arranged for him to be escorted to the state-funded studios of mediocre Russian artists, but in them Birch saw only a stream of paintings frozen by decades of fear into the official Socialist Realist style ordered by long-dead Lenin, Stalin, and Lunachersky, and who shared an endless supply of theoretically rationed vodka. However, while their work deserved little praise, to Birch’s plastered surprise these painters were united by their admiration and applause for Bacon, whose work they had only seen in small photographs in art magazines discretely passed from hand to hand among artists until they were ragged and stained. Klokov asked Birch if he could reach Bacon. Birch had known him since he was a little boy – Bacon once snapped a photograph of him splashing about in his grandmother’s bathtub. Now, Birch’s mission was clear – bring Bacon to Moscow.

Birch returned to England and met with Bacon during one of his legendary drunken nights out in Soho. Over bottles of champagne he pitched the idea of a Moscow show. To his surprise Bacon immediately agreed to the idea. “When I was younger, I met two Russian sailors in Berlin, they were very good to me,” he said with a smile.

But who would fund the show? A rush of meetings followed. The Marlborough Gallery wouldn’t pay. The Russians couldn’t pay. Bacon was nonchalant. Klokov came to London and met him for lunch at an expensive restaurant on Germyn Street, in the heart of the establishment, then met representatives of the British Council, bringing the Russian ambassador with him and persuading them to fund the expensive shipping, crating, and insurance of the paintings with British taxpayers’ money. Eager for opportunities to develop new intelligence contacts in Gorbachev’s Russia, the British Council promised to assist. Klokov complained of sharkish behavior at the Marlborough Gallery and warned Birch that he must find a way to neutralize the threat that they might attempt to control the exhibit. Birch worried about the word “neutralize” coming from the mouth of the KGB agent. The Union of Artists offered to host the exhibit in their own gallery.

Birch returned to Moscow to measure the gallery. He had begun thinking of Klokov as a friend and was falling in love with Khudiakova, and they all dined together to celebrate. Birch was becoming used to the pragmatic and dour Russian outlook, although he was shocked when Klokov told him he served in Afghanistan as a flamethrower operator, burning down the houses of suspected mujahadin. Chillingly, he said that the smell of burning flesh and the sand in his mouth had made breathing difficult. “It felt like an ethical lobotomy,” Birch writes. To lighten the mood, he retrieved a copy of Daniel Farson’s story announcing Bacon’s exhibit in the Daily Mail, which reported that Klokov had joked to Birch, “You know James… if Mister Bacon made a show in Moscow, I’m sure the queues will be bigger than those for Lenin’s tomb.” For the first time he saw fear on Klokov’s face. Klokov cursed Birch’s naivete and told him he had put him in danger. “These kinds of remarks can have serious repercussions in USSR,” he said. But Gorbachev was in power now, and Klokov had unwittingly captured the mood of perestroika.

After all the drama, Birch’s description of Bacon’s show in Moscow seems almost like an afterthought. As Klokov had predicted, immediately after it was clear that it presented a real opportunity for political manoeuvring, powerful players pushed him to the sidelines, although he had a glowing career ahead of him as an international art dealer and curator. Bacon’s show in Moscow attracted more than 600,000 people. Lenin’s tomb didn’t stand a chance.

Birch asked Khudiakova to marry him, and eventually she came to London to live with him. He discussed the marriage proposal with his mother, and she was horrified, telling him, “You can’t marry her, she’s KGB.” His father asked Khudiakova what was the best thing that had ever happened to her, doubtlessly expecting her to affirm her love for Birch, and she replied, “Meeting Klokov.”

James Birch, Bacon in Moscow. Cheerio Publishing











Property from a Private European Collector



LOT 115   |   19 MAY 2022   |   19:00 EDT   |   NEW YORK 



Francis Bacon


Study of Red Pope 1962, 2nd Version 1971



   signed Francis Bacon, titled and dated Study of Red Pope 1962,


   2nd Version 1971 (on the reverse)


oil on canvas
78 by 58
⅛ in. 198 by 147.5 cm.
Executed in 1971.


  Estimate: 40,000,000—60,000,000 USD

  Lot sold: 46,284,500 USD




Marlborough Fine Art, Zürich
Private Collection, Europe (acquired from the above in February 1973)
Acquired by descent from the above sale by the present owner



John Russell, Francis Bacon, London, 1971, p. 112, illustrated in color
Lorenza Trucchi, Francis Bacon, New York, 1975, p. 14 (text), p. 150, illustrated in color
Exh. Cat., Venice Biennale 45th International Exhibition, Figurabile Francis Bacon, 1993, p. 117 (text) 
Wieland Schmied, Francis Bacon: Commitment and Conflict, Munich, 1996, no. 18, fig. 34, p. 23, illustrated, p. 49, illustrated in color 
Exh. Cat., Institut Valencià d’Art Modern (and travelling), Francis Bacon: Lo Sagrado y lo Profano, 2003–2004, p. 31, illustrated in color
Michael Peppiatt, Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma, London, 2008, p. 292 (text)
Martin Harrison, ed., Francis Bacon: Catalogue Raisonné, Volume III, 1958-71, London, 2016, no. 71-04, p. 970-971, illustrated in color
Maia Wellington Gahtan & Donatella Pegazzano, eds., Monographic Exhibitions and the History of Art, New York, 2018, p. 56 (text)
John M. Carvalho, Thinking with Images: An Enactivitst Aesthetics, New York, 2018, p. 35 (text)



Paris, Galeries Nationals du Grand Palais and Kunsthalle Düsseldorf, Francis Bacon, 1971-1972, no. 107, p. 137, illustrated
Paris, Centre Pompidou, Francis Bacon: Books and Panting, 2019-2020, pp. 50-51, illustrated in color, p. 229 (text)




“Study of Red Pope 1962, 2nd version 1971… is the final work in the series. Once again, Bacon introduces an element that complicates the spatial situation and sharpens the challenge to the viewer’s perceptions. The element in question is the mirror, an inherently ambivalent image that can also be read as a window. Here, too, the backrest of the throne has the function of a picture within a picture, but in this case, it is extended to form a triptych, a winged altarpiece whose two side-panels are folded out so that the viewer sees only their inner surface.”



A defining masterpiece and triumphant finale to the artist’s seminal series of Pope paintings, Study of Red Pope 1962, 2nd version 1971 depicts the first and only encounter within Francis Bacon’s oeuvre between his two most important subjects: the Pope raised on a dais, drawn from Diego Velázquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X,1650, and George Dyer, the love of Bacon’s life and one of his most celebrated muses. First unveiled at Bacon’s landmark retrospective at the Grand Palais in 1971, a career-defining exhibition and an accolade only previously afforded to Pablo Picasso among living painters, Study of Red Pope 1962, 2nd version 1971 remains a testament to Bacon’s limitless capacity to provoke and capture the most fundamental of human emotions. In the present work, Bacon reworks the composition of his 1962 painting Study from Innocent X, revising the portrait to include his love George Dyer, as if the figure of the Pope, not only the progenitor of Bacon’s practice but a stand-in for authority, the canon, and the father, finds its counterpart in Bacon’s lover, instantly identifiable by his curved nose. On October 26th, 1971, the Francis Bacon retrospective opened to great acclaim, the galleries at the Grand Palais were filled with admirers, yet George Dyer’s presence was tragically absent. Less than thirty-six hours prior, Dyer had taken his own life in their Paris hotel room. Executed shortly before the Retrospective, Study of Red Pope 1962, 2nd version 1971 reveals a haunting premonition of the devastating loss of Bacon’s lifelong love, a singular meeting of his two greatest muses and charts Bacon’s artistic maturation between 1962 and 1971. Having remained in private hands since 1972, the present work’s importance is further attested to by its inclusion in the major retrospective Francis Bacon Books and Painting at the Centre Pompidou in 2019.


“In the lives of all of us there is a human being whom we least wish to lose. Bacon sustained that particular loss at the time of his retrospective exhibition in Paris in 1971-1972. He bore it with a stoicism for which even Homer would have been hard put to find words; but in his real-life – his life as a painter, that is to say – it came to the fore over and over again.”



A tragic loss and profoundly emotional soul, Dyer was often portrayed in Bacon’s oeuvre as in motion or in a mirror. As John Russell describes: “A compact and chunky force of nature, with a vivid and highly unparsonical turn of phrase, he embodied a pent-up energy... a spirit of mischief, touched at times by melancholia... his wild humour, his sense of life as a gamble and the alarm system that had been bred into him from boyhood... George Dyer will live forever in the iconography of the English face.”  (John Russell, Francis Bacon, London 1993, pp. 160-65) Dyer’s passing would continue to haunt Francis Bacon’s artwork throughout his career. A now legendary portrait, Study of Red Pope 1962, 2nd version 1971  is one of the last images Bacon made of Dyer prior to his death, embodying Bacon’s fervent attempt to find catharsis in the canvas. Bacon’s portraits of George Dyer are some of his most passionate and psychologically arresting paintings; the spectral figures incisively convey the dichotomously tortured and heroic, romantic and tempestuous nature of their relationship.

Dyer and Bacon met in the fall of 1963 for the first time at a Soho pub; Dyer famously introduced himself to the artist’s party with the gambit You all seem to be having a good time. Can I buy you a drink?” (Jonathan Fryer, Soho in the Fifties and Sixties, London 1998, p. 9) A charming, handsome man, Dyer would soon become Bacon’s lover and muse. Underneath this beautiful façade, however, Dyer was deeply conflicted and vulnerable. Their relationship was passionate and tumultuous, tender and brutal. Study of Red Pope 1962, 2nd version 1971 reflects on the eight years they had together, the artistic and emotional transformation Francis Bacon encountered following their meeting in late 1963. During this period, Bacon sought to capture Dyer’s likeness with a painterly dynamism that captured his inner turmoil and the mercurial, fierce passion of their relationship. In Study of Red Pope 1962, 2nd version 1971, Dyer meets the Pope from behind a mirror; he resembles a trapped spectral reflection under that stirring gaze. A macabre and disquieting prophecy, Bacon illustrates Dyer as a shadow, a memory trapped stoically behind the glass, a seminal meeting with the conflicted head of the Catholic Church.

Study of Red Pope 1962, 2nd version 1971 endures as a fervidly fraught and harrowing grande finale to the incomparably momentous series of pontiffs that Bacon obsessively reworked in the 1950s and 1960s, transmitting a palpable vulnerability through the profound aesthetic translation of their psychological tension into painted form. In any one period, there are only a finite number of images with almost limitless connotations. In our time, along with perhaps Picasso’s Demoiselles d’Avignon, Duchamp’s La Grande Verre and a Giacommeti Femme debout, Bacon’s Popes are not only the centerpiece of all his paintings...but a centerpiece of the whole of twentieth-century art. (Michael Peppiatt, Exh. Cat., Norwich, Sainsbury Centre for Visual Arts (and travelling), Francis Bacon in the 1950s, 2006, p. 28) A titan of twentieth-century portraiture and one of the most iconic bodies of work, Bacon’s Pope paintings were inspired by Diego Velázquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X, 1650.

Bacon was deeply affected by the work, which he described to David Sylvester as one of the greatest portraits to have ever been made (Interviews, the green edition, p. 26), and the series became his most famous arena for the rendering of flesh in all its tactile glory and psychological deconstruction. Bacon’s chosen task in painting the Pope was not one of representing an image but rather re-representing the meanings inherent to Velázquez’s portrait: stature, presence, public role and the very mechanics of being. Bacon gets under the skin and goes beyond the surface of the image, engaging a series of emotions that lie at the heart of ordinary daily existence in the most extraordinary way.

A symbol of authority and power, the Pope that Bacon illustrates, distorts the infallibility of the figure. In many portraits, he is seen erupting in screams, writhing or disfigured. Through his depictions of the Pope, which he began after he first came across a reproduction of Velásquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X around 1946, Bacon would launch an exploration of the nature of existence that would guide his portraiture throughout his career, including those of George Dyer. In Velázquez’s portrait, Bacon became infatuated by the raw and tormented figure he glimpsed, a poignant juxtaposition to the figure’s exalted status.


“Bacon’s mirrors can be anything you like — except a reflecting surface... Bacon does not experience the mirror in the same way as Lewis Carroll. The body enters the mirror and lodges itself inside it, itself and its shadow. Hence the fascination: nothing is behind the mirror, everything is inside it.”



A retired army captain and racehorse trainer with a puritanical and vindictive streak, Bacon’s father Eddy tyrannized the family household, and in particular his son, with whom he was at odds. Allergic to his father’s horses, asthmatic and unashamedly effeminate, Bacon was expelled from the family home after being caught admiring himself in the mirror wearing his mother’s underwear. That the Pope – the Holy Father – was to be Bacon’s first subject when he reached artistic maturity is perhaps in part owing to a working-through of personal trauma. Bacon created approximately 50 canvases in the series of Popes, including early works from 1946 to 1950, which he subsequently destroyed, depicting Pope Innocent X, a man afflicted by the weight of his own authority. In the 1960s, Bacon turned to some of his most arresting and intensely captivating muse, his great love.

In 1971, for the retrospective Francis Bacon at the Grand Palais, the artist revised two of his most celebrated works, the present work and Second Version of Painting’1946 (1971), held in the permanent collection of the Museum of Modern Art, New York. Bacon’s insistence that this image be included in the exhibition, despite its then owner’s refusal to lend it, coupled with the new inclusion of the intimate portrayal of an emotionally fraught George Dyer, evidences Bacon’s regard for the importance of this piece and composition. Together Study for Innocent X and Study of Red Pope 1962, 2nd version 1971 chart the changes in technique, form and style that Bacon employed over the intervening nine years; the Baroque richness of color evident in his 1962 painting differs from the sparingly applied paint and raw canvas in Bacon’s later work.

The dynamic passages of painterly strokes of impasto juxtaposed against the bare canvas highlight the dramaturgy of the composition, the curved mirrors and fragmented space almost seem to foreshadow the iconic Black Triptychs executed following Dyer’s death. Furthermore, the inclusion of George Dyer evidences a palpable emotional reverence. Study of Red Pope 1962, 2nd version 1971 elevates the personal to the universal, transmitting a palpable vulnerability and arresting intensity. The work marked the end of an era for both muses, the final papal portrait and one of the last portraits of Dyer prior to his death; the light cords that dangle between them are suspenseful and threatening, a premonition of Dyer’s death. Study of Red Pope 1962, 2nd version 1971 singularly embodies the profound artistic reckoning between 1962 and 1971, becoming the ultimate encapsulation of Bacon’s most transformative decade.

As Wieland Schmied describes, "Study of Red Pope 1962, 2nd version 1971… is the final work in the series. Once again, Bacon introduces an element that complicates the spatial situation and sharpens the challenge to the viewer’s perceptions. The element in question is the mirror, an inherently ambivalent image that can also be read as a window. Here, too, the backrest of the throne has the function of a picture within a picture, but in this case, it is extended to form a triptych, a winged altarpiece whose two side-panels are folded out so that the viewer sees only their inner surface." (Wieland Schmied, Francis Bacon, CITY 2006, p. 23) Bacon worked from printed photographs of both the Velásquez Pope and Dyer, disfiguring and morphing their images to illustrate the burden and complexities of their internal psyche. He felt that by referring to secondary sources, he was able to remove their literal appearance and instead capture the essence of their selves. Equally conflicted characters, wrestling with power and vulnerability, the Pope and Dyer meet in the present work confronting each other’s gaze with a binding intensity.

One of the most radical iconoclasts, Bacon’s obsession with the Pope and Dyer, both fundamentally impacted his oeuvre and, more broadly, twentieth-century painting. Coupled together in the present composition, akin to a devotional diptych, the Pope and Dyer’s figures appear twisted, fractured and densely worked. Together, united as subjects of Bacon’s painterly obsession, they deftly embody the fragility of the human experience. In Study of Red Pope 1962, 2nd version 1971, the reference to his painting from nine years earlier offers unique insight into Bacon’s artistic evolution in the intervening years, a period that marked the most important decade in his life, culminating with the Grand Palais retrospective. Through Study of Red Pope 1962, 2nd version 1971, Bacon is in dialogue with himself, his muse, his lover, his past and his present, rendering a sublime commentary on the human condition with a fervent passion and incisive vigor. Staging the encounter between his great love, Dyer, and his greatest obsession, the Pope, Francis Bacon reveals a tragic premonition of Dyer’s fateful passing and a seminal reverent homage to his two most renowned muses finally united together.









Majid Boustany: “When Bacon burst into my life,


I was fascinated by the unique giant”








The patron and president of the Francis Bacon MB Art Foundation agreed to tell us about his passion for the painter and the activities carried out by his Foundation.

Could you tell us about your background?

After a degree in business administration followed by a master’s degree in international relations in England, I started working as a corporate director in my family’s business in Monaco. I am also co-owner, along with my brother, of the Hôtel Métropole in Monte-Carlo and founder of the Francis Bacon MB Art Foundation Monaco, a non-profit institution that is dedicated to the British artist Francis Bacon.

How would you describe the bond between yourself and Monaco?

Extremely strong. My family has been here for over forty years and I am deeply attached to the Principality and the Princely Family.

Why did you decide to launch the Francis Bacon MB Art Foundation in Monaco and not elsewhere?

During my student years in London, I took an art history course and on a visit to the Tate Gallery, when I was in my twenties, I came across Bacon’s triptych, Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion (1944), which defied interpretation and triggered a need within me to explore his world.

In the course of my research, I discovered that the artist first visited Monaco in the early 1940s, that he was a resident of Monaco from July 1946 until the early 1950s, and that he continued to stay regularly in the Principality with his family, lovers, and circle of friends right up until the end.

He would readily speak of his stays in Monaco and he often referred to the work he managed to do here, despite the many distractions he faced. It was in Monaco that he began to focus on the representation of the human figure and began his first series of popes and series of heads. Creating a foundation in the Principality therefore seemed to me to be an obvious choice.

The vital support of Prince Albert II and the Monegasque authorities played a major role in the creation of the project, and the Sovereign inaugurated the Francis Bacon MB Art Foundation on 28 October 2014, the anniversary of the painter’s birth.

What does the painter mean to you? What does his art awaken in you?

When Bacon burst into my life, I was quickly fascinated by this unique, unclassifiable, self-taught and uncompromising giant whose works raise burning questions. As an observer of his time, he made monumental and tragic works, “a concentration of reality,” as he put it so well, which captivated and haunted me. His powerful images, tinged with intense pain, disturb, shock, fascinate and have such a spellbinding power that nobody can remain indifferent.

Is there a seminal work for you?

One of my favourite works by Bacon, and part of my collection, is Figure Crouching, a canvas dating from 1949 that was probably painted in Monaco.

What are your Foundation’s aims?

The Francis Bacon MB Art Foundation is a non-profit institution that is dedicated to study and research on the British painter. It was created to promote a better understanding of the artist’s work, life and creative process, with a special focus on the period he spent living and working in Monaco and France.

It supports research, awarding a research scholarship every four years to a doctoral student at the École du Louvre whose work focuses on Francis Bacon, and is open to researchers and art historians. It also supports artistic creation by providing scholarships to young graduate students from Villa Arson, publishes books on Bacon and supports publications about the artist.

The Foundation also produces short films about the painter and contributes to exhibitions by lending works or through financial support. The Grimaldi Forum in Monaco, the Tate Liverpool, the Musée Fabre in Montpellier, the Fondation Beyeler in Basel, the Musée Fernand Léger in Biot, the Centre Pompidou in Paris, the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Lyon and the Royal Academy in London are some of the museums we have cooperated with.

The Foundation is open year round to researchers and art historians. It is open to the public, by appointment only, every Tuesday and on the first Saturday of the month for guided tours, free of charge.

What other philanthropic activities have you carried out?

In 2020, I created an endowment fund with the Musée du Louvre, directed towards the conservation and enhancement of the collections of this prestigious Paris institution.

The income from the fund is destined to support the restoration of works in the Louvre that were admired by Bacon during his many visits, some of which influenced his own work. That same year, I became a patron of the École du Louvre’s endowment fund by making a capital donation to enable it to carry on its work.

I was also the patron of an ambitious architectural project entitled “ÉCOLE DU LOUVRE 2021-2022” involving the refurbishment of its library, IT and documentation services and cafeteria, as well as the creation of a research centre, which was recently inaugurated in the presence of the French Minister of Culture Roselyne Bachelot-Narquin and Princess Caroline of Hanover.

It is the most significant funding ever provided to an educational establishment run by the Ministry of Culture. For this major project, I also provided the school with two sculptures by the British artist Antony Gormley, Witness VII and Witness VIII, as well as an easel that belonged to Francis Bacon and a photograph of the artist, bringing works of art into this study and research environment for the first time.

How do you view the cultural offering and the art world in Monaco?

Culture in all its forms has always played a fundamental role in the history of the Principality. The Ballets de Monte-Carlo, the Philharmonic Orchestra and the Monte-Carlo Opera have been internationally renowned for over a century.

I have noticed a significant development in the cultural offering in the Principality over recent decades, in particular thanks to the opening of two establishments: the Grimaldi Forum which, along with its other attractions, hosts a major exhibition every summer that has become a must-see event, and the New National Museum of Monaco, which holds several exhibitions each year, promoting Monegasque heritage and its collection.

The Oceanographic Museum, by inviting major artists for its temporary exhibitions, has also contributed to this movement. This development was made possible thanks to the essential support of Prince Albert II and Princess Caroline of Hanover as well as the numerous initiatives by the Directorate of Cultural Affairs.

The Principality of Monaco has also become a pivotal centre for the art market with the arrival of the artmonte-carlo show but also thanks to the recent opening of prestigious galleries and the vitality of its auction houses. By creating the Francis Bacon MB Art Foundation, I wanted to make a further contribution to Monaco’s existing cultural landscape.

What are your tastes and choices as a collector?

I have dedicated my collection to the works of Francis Bacon but I have also acquired works by painters who worked alongside Bacon, such as Graham Sutherland, Roy de Maistre, Denis Wirth-Miller, Vladimir Veličković, César, Maggi Hambling and Louis le Brocquy, or who were influenced by the work of Bacon such as Ernest Pignon-Ernest or Robert Longo.



                                                             Majid Boustany © Francis Bacon MB Art Foundation






How Elaine Wynn Became the Grande Dame of Las Vegas







On mornings in one of her four homes, Elaine Wynn likes to take her coffee beside Francis Bacon’s triptych Three Studies of Lucian Freud. She bought the paintings for $142.4 million at a Christie’s auction in 2013. That purchase, made anonymously at the time, smashed the record for the most expensive piece of art ever sold at auction and created a frenzy of speculation as to the buyer’s identity.

In the hours after the auction, Wynn says reporters called her ex-husband, Steve Wynn, to ask if he was the mystery buyer. “They were saying it will probably be on the wall of a hedge fund guy or in the desert in Arabia,” Elaine Wynn recalls. “I remember being offended that speculation centered on men, and nobody thought that a woman would either have the money or the balls.”

On this February morning, she is wearing an old Giorgio Armani blouse and newish Gabriela Hearst slacks. To her right, the shimmering copper-tone towers of the Wynn Las Vegas casino resort dominate the view from her limestone-walled dining room. She recently redid her condo with the decorator of the Obama-era White House, Michael Smith. It sits in a complex that has been home to numerous casino titans and power hitters, including the former heads of  Harrah’s (now Caesars Entertainment), Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer and Fontainebleau Resorts. It goes almost without saying that those titans have been men.

Wynn’s panorama is metaphorically rich. Wynn and her ex-husband designed and operated one Las Vegas casino after another for nearly 50 years. They brought fantasy to the desert town in the form of Mirage’s volcano, Treasure Island’s pirate battle, Bellagio’s fountains and the Wynn’s luxury. While she watches over the Wynn from her aerie, her ex lives far from his high-powered former life after having been ousted in a cloud of sexual harassment allegations from the company they co-founded. These days, he can often be found in Palm Beach, Florida, with his new wife, Andrea. Las Vegas itself has changed too, its founders replaced by hired fund managers and marketing executives.

Though Elaine Wynn is no longer an executive of the empire she co-founded, she is its biggest and most active single shareholder. This makes her the last of the dreamers whose gambling parlors transformed a small town into a global resort destination while they became high-profile casino moguls with political and financial clout ( Kirk Kerkorian bought MGM film studios; Steve Wynn became fundraising chair of the GOP). In one of the most testosterone-driven cities on earth, a woman outlasted and outmaneuvered them all.

Wynn, who has held a Nevada casino license since 1978, is worth an estimated $1.8 billion, according to Forbes, based largely on the value of her 8 percent share in Wynn Resorts. Yet for most of her adult life she has been known more for her philanthropic work in education, and as a supreme hostess with friends in high places (one of her former homes featured a mini Oval Office for visits from George H.W. Bush).

As she turns 80 in April, Wynn is coming to terms with the hand she was dealt when her husband divorced her, in 2010, and then left Wynn Resorts amid allegations of sexual harassment and rape (which he has repeatedly denied), revealed in a January 2018 Wall Street Journal article. Elaine Wynn became a primary catalyst in the company’s reform. She established new leadership on the board and testified in support of Wynn Resorts keeping a vital license to operate a new casino in Boston.

She has remade herself as a world-level art collector and a force in public art, supporting the Los Angeles County Museum of Art and using her influence to help create a national monument designation to protect land around Michael Heizer’s City—a 1.25-mile-long earthwork sculpture in Nevada. She has taken her work in Nevada education to the national level: She is chairman of Communities in Schools, which provides resources to disadvantaged children. It recently received a surprise $133 million gift from MacKenzie Scott, Jeff Bezos’s ex-wife.

She laughs that her taste is evolving as she learns to create spaces that aren’t mega casinos, and without pressure from her design-obsessed ex. Smith, she says, rejected some of her fabric choices as “too hotel” as they designed her Las Vegas home, which ended up, she says, without a single fabric that she chose herself. “There is a Wynn style that’s very much based on the hotels,” says Smith. “Elaine has a personal style also that we wanted to explore.” She is more confident in her fashion choices, and those have evolved too. Once a loyal client of Oscar de la Renta, she recently purchased a colorful oversize sweater from Christopher John Rogers and a zany embellished Libertine coat. “Fashion is the new art,” she says, pulling the looks from her room-size closet and describing her pursuit of an asymmetrical satin Balenciaga dress that she saw on a client at the brand’s flagship store in New York. When she’s in New York, she likes to shop at Linda’s, a boutique curated by Bergdorf Goodman’s well-known fashion director, Linda Fargo.

The Wynns have two daughters: Kevyn Wynn, a sometime fashion designer who was famously kidnapped in 1993 and released after her father paid a $1.45 million ransom, and Gilian Wynn, an entrepreneur and philanthropist. They have seven grandchildren, including 23-year-old Marlowe Early, who has begun working on an oral history of her grandmother, with whom she sided in the family split. Early says she believes that “Mouchie”—Elaine’s family nickname—has been under-recognized for her achievements in the face of dramatic personal and professional turmoil.

“I don’t think it’s fair that he gets to go on with his life,” Early says. “She is the person who has conducted herself with grace, value, consistency. Who is the real superhero in my eyes?”

Elaine Wynn had worked in and served on the board of the Wynns’ companies since 1967, maintaining an office and focusing her energy on everything from human resources to training to catering. She directed the Chanel-style uniforms for front desk employees when the Wynn resort opened in 2005 and persuaded Oscar de la Renta and Manolo Blahnik to open their only Las Vegas boutiques (at the time) there. But she has been credited only in recent years as a co-founder. Steve Wynn, as chairman and CEO, sometimes called himself the casinos’ “dada,” but her management roles didn’t fall into the standard executive titles.

“I was always the wing lady,” Wynn says. “It wasn’t part of the push for me to be concerned about gender equity or recognition. I always viewed our work as partners.”

Michael Govan, director of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, says Wynn was a key figure in the 2015 creation of Basin and Range National Monument, which protects the 704,000 acres surrounding Heizer’s City. President Barack Obama approved the designation. “When [Elaine] started making calls to Congress,” Govan says, “somehow I was received in a different way.”

Wynn was one of the first major donors to support a controversial new LACMA building designed by reclusive Swiss architect Peter Zumthor. When Govan, hoping she would donate, invited Wynn to tour Zumthor’s work in Europe in 2015, they wound up that August on a four-day road trip from Cologne, Germany, and Bregenz, Austria, to Haldenstein, the tiny Swiss mountain village where the architect works, with Govan behind the wheel of a rented station wagon. Marlowe Early and Govan’s daughter Ariana came along, the teenagers lending a National Lampoon’s Vacation vibe.

Wynn soon pledged $50 million without requesting that the building bear her name. “Without that initial 50 there would be no project,” says Govan. Music mogul David Geffen later pledged $150 million, securing the naming rights. Wynn is now co-chair of LACMA’s board.

The Wynns once had Picasso’s famous Le Rêve in their dining room (Steve Wynn later put his elbow through the painting by accident), but Elaine Wynn says her own tastes ran to the crafty, such as basketry and weaving. At a cocktail party at Donna Karan’s home in New York, Wynn saw a Francis Bacon work on display that sparked her interest. “It got me by the gurgle,” she says.

“I decide I’m going to enter into the auction business myself and get me a Bacon,” she says, conceding she failed at her first attempt. She began fleshing out her collection with works by Édouard Manet and Lucian Freud, as well as contemporary artists including Lauren Halsey, Adrian Ghenie and El Anatsui.

Wynn was working with art dealer Bill Acquavella in 2013 when the Bacon triptych showed up in a Christie’s auction catalog. “I always do my 48-hour test where I leave the darn thing on a credenza somewhere and go about my business,” Wynn says. “Well, this thing just didn’t leave me alone.”

A basketball fanatic, Wynn was in Chicago for the Duke versus Kansas game at the State Farm Champions Classic tournament the day of the auction. She bid anonymously from her hotel room with Acquavella on the phone. “There’s a lot of action until we get up to $100 million,” she recalls wryly. When the gavel smacked at $142.4 million, “I had this moment, like, OK, OK,” Wynn says. “I get in the car to go to the game, and I am having the worst buyer’s remorse. What have I just done?”

Much has been written about Steve Wynn, Wynn Resorts and the aftermath of the 2018 sexual harassment and assault allegations. Little is known about Elaine Wynn’s aftermath.

In 2018, she found herself an outsider, having been ousted from her office and the Wynn Resorts board after the divorce. She was now the largest individual shareholder, however, while the company was being investigated by Nevada and Massachusetts casino regulators. She was also locked in litigation with her ex and the company involving the control of her shares. Then she began to hear from women making the allegations about her husband. In a sign of the complexities of the relationships and notions of responsibility, Wynn says some described their experiences and apologized for not coming forward earlier.

“I don’t know how many other victims confess to the wives,” Wynn says. “But because of my unique situation, as being their employer-slash-mentor-slash, you know, mom—there were departments in that place that I helped put together…so I knew those people.

“People will always say, ‘How could she not have known?’ ” Wynn says. “Did I suspect that my husband could be mischievous and be, you know, a playboy?” She pauses. “All I did was apologize.”

Steve Wynn, who has said that any suggestion that he assaulted a woman is “preposterous,” declined to comment or answer any questions for this article, according to his attorney, Reid Weingarten.

Wynn’s face clouds as she discusses that year—the shame felt by her family, and the recognition that her net worth was tied up in a company that required wholly new corporate governance.

“I was really distraught by the behavior and the history that was unveiled,” Wynn says. When a longtime friend of Steve Wynn, John Hagenbuch, opted to remain on the board with the support of management, Elaine Wynn went rogue against the company she co-founded, waging a proxy fight to remove him that she says cost her “several” million dollars.

“Everybody, even her children, told her to stop,” Marlowe Early says.

Michael Klein, a banker and founder of the consultancy M. Klein & Company, was one of the advisers who accompanied her on a road trip to make the case to investors. He notes that Wynn was often received with suspicion, more as a vindictive ex-wife than a founder and shareholder. The proxy battle was bruising.

“To sleep at night, I’d say, I know I’m killing myself, but I can’t let this story end on their terms. I am the only one that’s being held accountable,” Wynn says.

In May 2018, Wynn won the proxy battle after investors and the three largest institutional investor advisory firms voted in her favor. But with critical regulatory investigations underway in Nevada and Massachusetts, the role of Wynn Resorts chairman was held by another of Steve Wynn’s longtime friends, D. Boone Wayson. Wynn saw that as a risk.

Wynn reached out to Phil Satre, the former chief executive of Harrah’s casinos, who had a reputation as the casino industry’s altar boy and was respected by regulators, whose support Wynn Resorts desperately needed. Satre was by then chairman of the board of Nordstrom In.  Satre says that Wynn phoned him, then flew to Seattle, where he was attending a Nordstrom directors’ meeting, and convinced him to consider joining the Wynn board.

“The remarkable thing about Elaine is that a lot of people in her situation, in my opinion, would have taken her shareholder position and gone off and had a good time in Sun Valley and L.A. That’s not what she did,” says Satre, who resigned as chairman from Nordstrom and left other commitments to join Wynn Resorts that August. Wayson retired, and Satre became chairman in November.

“Her ability to finalize that last play on the chessboard—I’ve watched some fantastic tacticians in the corporate boardroom, but no one was thinking of Phil until Elaine,” Klein says.

Wynn says she is now pleased with the direction of the company. “The stock’s in the toilet but that’s OK. I’m here for the long term. We’re doing fine. And I do like the management now.”

With the casino drama settled, Wynn has turned her focus to her children and grandchildren, her life in Las Vegas, Los Angeles and New York (her Sun Valley, Idaho, house was under contract to be sold in April) and her work in education.

She continues to trade and collect art but says she will never sell the Bacon triptych. Yet she wishes to assuage her guilt, she says, for keeping such a valuable artwork to herself, so it will be part of her estate, destined one day for an as-yet-unnamed museum. “I’ll have had the pleasure of being a steward for a while,” Wynn says. “And that will clear my conscience.”

How much does Govan want it for LACMA? “What’s the scale?” he responds. “From one to 10? Eleven.”

Wynn recently watched a CBS Mornings interview in which Melinda French Gates reflected candidly on exiting her 27-year marriage to Bill Gates, and on the ways women are often left to answer for the men in their lives. “I had a lot of tears for many days. Days when I’m literally laying on the floor on the carpet,” French Gates told interviewer Gayle King after parrying several questions about her husband’s infidelities. “Days I certainly was angry.”

“Man,” Wynn says. “There I was right in that woman’s body, feeling what she was describing.”






                          Elaine Wynn likes to take her coffee beside Francis Bacon’s triptych Three Studies of Lucian Freud. She bought the paintings for $142.4 million at a Christie’s auction in 2013.







 Skarstedt New York explores Francis Bacon’s


 relationships in upcoming exhibition







A group of masterworks by Francis Bacon painted between the 1950s and 1970s are coming to Skarstedt Gallery in New York as part of an upcoming exhibition that explores the artist’s relationships with beloved friends and muses.

Running from 4 May to 11 June 2022 at Skarstedt Gallery in New York, Francis Bacon: Faces and Figures looks at the "poignant moments of loss and companionship" which were felt in the great painter’s personal relationships.

Featuring depictions of some of Francis Bacon’s most beloved friends, lovers and muses — including Peter Lacy, George Dyer, Muriel Belcher, and Henrietta Moraes — the exhibition also doesn’t shy away from the fiery and tempestuous aspects of these relationships. Intimate self-portraits and a portrait of Pope Pius XII are also on display to round out the collection.

For admirers of how Bacon experimented with figures and distorted the human form in his expressive paintings, Francis Bacon: Faces and Figures also promises to offer up some rarities. Amongst them are the paintings of Muriel Belcher and Henrietta Moraes. While not usually associated with the romantic discourse which usually dominates his work, the two women played an essential role in his practice.

In particular, the muse of Henrietta Moraes gets special treatment. Study of Henrietta Moraes Laughing and Three Studies for a Portrait will be shown side-by-side for the first time, which is fitting, seeing as both pieces were inspired by the 1959 film Hiroshima Mon Amour in which the lead actress appears with a piece of hair across her face.

“Here, Bacon uses it as a compositional device to split Moraes’s face in two while evoking the love, loss, and despair latent in the film and his own life,” Skarstedt Gallery explains.

However, Bacon’s muse was not always other people, and the artist started to turn to himself for subject matter later in his career when people around him started to die.

“Painted when he was nearly seventy, Study for Self-Portrait (1979) sees Bacon considering his own mortality after a life of so much loss and death,” says the gallery. “Hues of crimson, blue, and purple flicker across his face as if battered and bruised, tired from years of fighting.”




                                                      Man at a Washbasin (1954)





Bacon’s bequest






Your article mischaracterises the material donated to the Tate by Barry Joule and the events that have taken place since (“Francis Bacon bequest will be sent to France is snub to Tate gallery”, News).

This is a collection of archival material from Bacon’s studio address, including documents and photographs, not finished works of art. It was accepted into the Tate’s archive as such, where it has been catalogued and made available for research at Tate Britain, and where some of the items have since been publicly shown in archival displays.

We have acknowledged and thanked Mr Joule, keeping an open dialogue with him throughout this period and our conversations with him about the material are ongoing.

Maria Balshaw, director, and Roland Rudd, chair of Trustees, Tate, London





Nicolas Cage faces off with a new foe: himself







“Metropolis.” Bruce Lee. Woody Woodpecker. A pet cobra. All of these things have been inspirations behind Nicolas Cage performances — sometimes private homages that the actor has used like blueprints to build some of his most exaggerated, erratic and affecting characters.

A conversation with Cage, likewise, pulls from a wide gamut of sources. In a recent and typically wide-ranging interview ahead of the release of “The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent,” Cage touched on Picasso, Elia Kazan, Timothée Chalamet and Francis Bacon. A book of interviews with Bacon, “The Brutality of Fact,” for instance, helped Cage define his attraction to intense, even grotesque performance — “that which is not obviously beautiful,” he says — rather than naturalism.

“And I’ve kind of approached my public perception, as well as the way I design my film work, as an actor with that concept in mind to not be afraid to be ugly in behaviour or even in appearance,” says Cage. “To create a kind of taste that you have to discover.”

With more than 100 films, the 58-year-old Cage — an Oscar-winner (“Leaving Las Vegas”), an action star (“Con Air”) and the source of countless Internet memes for his most theatrical moments in films like “Face/Off” — has long been one of the most particular tastes in movies. Yet by being “an amateur surrealist,” as he refers to himself, Cage has emerged — even after resorting to a string of VOD releases to pay off back taxes and get himself out of debt — as one of Hollywood’s most widely loved stars. As “Unbearable Weight” director Tom Gormican says, “the sight of his face sort of makes people happy.”

But for even the mercurial Cage, “The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent,” which opens in theaters Friday, represents something different. In it, Cage plays himself. Or, rather, he plays a fun-house mirror version of himself that sometimes interacts with a younger version of himself. The movie is one big homage to Cage in which the actor somehow manages to both satirize perceptions of himself and act out those personas sincerely.

“The through line that’s always been there for me: No matter what I designed, and it has been a design whether it’s ridiculous — and it’s often ridiculous — or whether it’s sublime, it has to be informed with genuine emotional content,” says Cage.

“No matter how broad or what some folk like to call over the top, it had genuine feeling.”

But what to Cage constitutes over the top? This is the actor who, channeling Nosferatu in “Vampire’s Kiss,” gave one of the most bonkers recitals of the alphabet ever heard. He’s fond of answering: “Well, show me where the top is and I’ll tell you if I’m over it.”

“I grew up in a house where my mom would do things that if you put it in a movie, you would say that was over the top,” says Cage, whose mother, Joy Coppola, was a dancer and choreographer. His father, August Coppola, brother of Francis, was a professor of literature. “But what is the top? When you want to design something and you think about different styles — naturalism, impressionism, surrealism, abstract — then you start to look at it in a different way. It’s not going to be for everybody and it’s not necessarily going to sell tickets. But that’s OK.”

“Movies are a business and it was not without peril that I took this path, but it was important to me,” he adds. “I stuck by it and, sure, I got plenty of rotten tomatoes thrown in my face. But I knew that was going to happen so it wasn’t anything I didn’t expect.”

But what’s unusual about Cage is that many of those experiments HAVE sold tickets. A lot of them. Cage’s films account for nearly $5 billion in worldwide box office. Still, its been a while since he was front-and-center in a major studio film.

“The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent,” which Lionsgate premiered at South by Southwest to warm reviews, allows him to play around with the notion of a comeback. In the film, hes desperate to score better parts than the birthday party he’s been offered $1 million to attend. The movie was an opportunity to wrestle — usually comically, sometimes physically — with his own exaggerated mythology.

“He would come up to me and say, (lowers voice) ‘Tom, there’s a guy who wears rings and leather jackets and he lives in Las Vegas and he would never say that line,’” recalls Gormican. “And I would go, ‘Oh, you mean you.’ He’d say, ‘Yes.’ And I’d be like, ‘Well, it’s not you. It’s a character based on you.’ And he’d go, ‘But he has my name.’ I was like, ‘Come on, man, just say the line.’”

“We’d have discussions about who understood Nick Cage more,” adds Gormican, laughing.

Gormican was initially turned down several times by Cage before a heartfelt letter finally convinced the actor to make the film. The issue was that Cage, even at his most outlandish, has never put quotation marks around his performances. He tends to invest fully in even the most unhinged characters. (Werner Herzogs “Bad Lieutenant: Port of New Orleans” comes to mind.) Cage initially feared Gormican’s film would be self-mocking parody, and while it has those elements, Cage steers it in more unpredictable directions.

“Without mentioning names, there were some actors that came out of the gate that I thought were really sincere and profoundly emotional and honest in the beginning and then became too high on their own supply,” Cage says. “They started winking at the audience and, in my opinion, it lost the emotional connection. It’s a slippery slope when you make the decision that you want to be emotional and raw.”

The actor does reach some gonzo heights in the film. After one scene, Gormican was honoured to hear Cage say: “That was the Full Cage. You got the Full Cage.” Another scene features the two Cages making out, after which the younger exclaims, “Nick Cage smooches good!”

Cage’s own exotic tastes — he once had to return a dinosaur skull he purchased that had been stolen from Mongolia — have contributed to his legend. But he insists that he is normal in his life so that he can be extreme in his work — and that some of his self-promotion, like an infamously nutty appearance on “Wogan,” was itself an act.

Cage last year married Riko Shibata, his fifth wife, and they are expecting a child. (Cage also has two grown sons; a sticking point in “Unbearable Weight” was that he not be shown as an absentee father — one fiction Cage wouldnt permit.) After an unusually introspective press tour for the film, Cage is looking forward to returning to the desert outside Las Vegas, where he lives. He could use a break from “Nick Cage.”

But “The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent” wraps a chapter for the actor. He’s finally out of the red after making some 30 video-on-demand films over the last decade to pay off the IRS and his creditors. He makes no apologies for those films. They made him a better actor, he says.

“I was practicing. I managed to keep my access to my imagination at my fingertips. It was a much better way for me to get this financial crisis off my back than doing something like a Super Bowl commercial — and believe me they offered,” says Cage. “That was also a point for me, that I’m not a salesman, I’m an actor.”

Cage can also once again feel some mainstream momentum behind him. His performance in last years “Pig,” as a grizzled truffle hunter with a past, earned some of his best reviews in years. It was a more naturalistic performance than Cage is generally known for — and a reminder of his limitless range. Having started professionally at 15, Cage reminds that he’s been doing this a long time. To him, his path began, appropriately enough, with an audacious performance.

Cage’s father, the actor says, had a massive influence on him, exposing him to books, early films and paintings. But he could cut his son down with words.

“And I just wasn’t going to take it,” says Cage. “I knew that he thought more of me than he let on. I tricked him once and I did something that I’ve never done ever again. I lied. I said, ‘Dad, I wrote this song.’ And I played him Joe Jackson’s “Is She Really Going Out With Him?” And he believed me. He said, “Wow, Nicky, that’s incredible.” Then I got the positive affirmation that I needed to believe in myself. That was the one time a lie saved me.





                                                                                                                                Nicolas Cage, “Mandy,” 2018






Francis Bacon Confidant Reroutes Donation



to France Following Rift with Tate







A confidant of Francis Bacon has decided not to donate a trove of works by the postwar painter to Tate in London following a long-running rift with the British institution over its handling of a previous gift. Instead he will donate the works to the French state.

Barry Joule, a British man who befriended Bacon in 1978 while the two were living in London, rescinded his initial plan to donate the works after Tate had failed to exhibit an earlier tranche of works he had donated almost two decades ago, The Guardian reports.

The current donation is said to comprise around 150 drawings and 10 paintings, along with a trove of archival materials that include hundreds of photographs and 12 hours of audio recordings between Joule and Bacon. Joule maintained contact with Bacon until the artist’s death in 1992.

Now, Joule says he has already begun negotiations to donate the materials to the Centre Pompidou’s national archives in Paris. In 2019, the Pompidou organized  an exhibition titled “Bacon: Books and Painting” that looked at the literary influences on the Irish-born artist’s work.

Joule has donated works to French museums before. In 2005, he donated 80 drawings by Bacon to the Musée Picasso in Paris, which displayed them in a large-scale exhibition that same year.

In 2004, Joule donated to Tate a near 1,200-item archive spanning drawings to photographs from Bacon’s studio that was worth an estimated £20 million at the time. When the announcement was made, Tate said it would catalogue the donation over a period of three years before making it available to be exhibited.

Joule has said he is considering taking legal action against the Tate over the museum’s failure to prominently showcase the collection as agreed, threatening to sue the institution in an email correspondence published in August 2021.

A representative for Tate did not immediately respond to Artnewss request for comment.

But recently doubt has been cast over the bona fides of Joule’s 2004 donation, known as the Barry Joule Archive (BJA). Last September, the Bacon Estate published Francis Bacon: Shadows, which quotes an unnamed Tate curator as saying “the hand/s that applied the marks to the material may not have included Bacon to any substantial degree,” according to an article published by The Guardian at the time.

In Shadows, Sophie Pretorius, an archivist for the estate, adds, “The story of the material associated with Joule is riddled with exaggeration, half-truths and contradictions… Bacon’s work is not easy to mimic. But the author of the items in the BJA made a stab at it.”





Francis Bacon friend to snub Tate with French donation




BEN ELLERY   |   UK NEWS   |   THE TIMES   |   MONDAY, APRIL 18, 2022


A collection of art by Francis Bacon will not be given to the Tate and will instead go to France after a row between the gallery and one of the artist’s closest friends.

Barry Joule, a confidant of the artist, will no longer give the Tate hundreds of works after it failed to exhibit an earlier donation.

The second donation was to have included up to 150 drawings, ten paintings, hundreds of photographs and more than 12 hours of taped material in which the artist chatted with Joule about subjects including art and sex.

Joule has started negotiations to give the work to the French National Archives at the Pompidou Centre in Paris.

He told The Observer: “The Tate and Britain will be missing out on part of the nation’s art history of one of their most important painters.”

In 2004 Joule gave the Tate 1,200 sketches, photographs and documents from Bacon’s studio in a gift estimated to be worth £20 million. At the time the gallery said: “Tate will undertake to study, photograph and catalogue the collection over the next three years, before displaying these items and making them available for loan.”

Joule has since threatened legal action after what he describes as its failure to display it in a proper exhibition, as agreed, although Maria Balshaw, the Tate’s director, wrote to him last year reiterating the gallery’s gratitude.

Last year Sophie Pretorius, archivist of the estate’s collection, wrote in a book about Bacon: “The story of the material associated with Joule is riddled with exaggeration, half-truths and contradictions . . . Bacon’s work is not easy to mimic. But the author of the items in the BJA [Barry Joule archive] made a stab at it.”

Joule said he was “fuming” and was considering legal action. He had lived near Bacon’s London studio and in 1978 they struck up a friendship that lasted until the artist’s death in 1992. Joule recorded several of their conversations. He said: “He [Bacon] signed a statement saying I could use it 12 years after his death. Many of those conversations feature him philosophising.

A Tate spokeswoman declined to comment on the gallery’s handling of the 2004 gift. Asked about Joule’s cancellation of a further gift, she said: “We can confirm we have received the letter and will be responding to it.”





     Barry Joule, left, a confidant of  Francis Bacon, has started negotiations to give the work to the French National Archives at the Pompidou Centre in Paris.






Friend of Francis Bacon snubs the Tate to give art works to Paris instead




Barry Joule says he is cancelling plans to donate a collection to the UK gallery because it failed to exhibit works in earlier gift





An extensive collection of Francis Bacon’s art will be given to France instead of to the Tate following a row between the gallery and one of the artist’s closest friends.

Barry Joule, who was Bacon’s confidant, said he is so frustrated by the Tate’s failure to exhibit an earlier donation of the artist’s work that he has cancelled plans to donate hundreds more items to the gallery.

The further donation was to have included up to 150 drawings, 10 paintings, hundreds of photographs and more than 12 hours of taped material in which the artist chatted with Joule about subjects from art to sex.

Instead, he would now like the work to go the French National Archives in the Centre Pompidou Paris, and has started negotiations.

Joule told The Observer: “The Tate and Britain will be missing out on part of the nation’s art history of one of their most important painters. I turn my back on the Tate for ever.”

In 2004, he gave the Tate about 1,200 sketches, photographs and documents from Bacon’s studio in what was then described as one of the most generous gifts to the gallery, worth an estimated £20m. Its announcement stated then: “Tate will undertake to study, photograph and catalogue the collection over the next three years, before displaying these items and making them available for loan.

Joule claims he has been driven to pursue legal action against the Tate over what he describes as its failure to do justice to that collection with a proper exhibition, as initially agreed, although the Tate’s director, Maria Balshaw, wrote to him last year, reiterating the gallery’s gratitude.

He has now told the Tate they won’t receive a further gift. “The gallery’s reaction? Nothing,” he said.

Joule had lived near Bacon’s London studio, and in 1978 they struck up a friendship that continued until the artist’s death in 1992, exactly 30 years ago this month.

He spent numerous holidays with Bacon and recorded a series of their conversations: “He [Bacon] signed a statement saying I could use it 12 years after his death. Many of those conversations feature him philosophising, often with his unmistakable no-nonsense comments,” he said.

He singled out a 1991 recording that gives insights into Bacon’s dismissal of his own success. At one point, he shouts the words “I am not rich!” – even though he was by then the most famous and richest painter alive.

Joule said: “He was a self-deprecating artist who, strangely enough, never ever thought of himself as rich. Of course, he was rich, but he lived very simply. The only time he really splashed out was in expensive restaurants.”

In those recordings, Bacon talked about other artists, including Jasper Johns, dismissing his 1959 abstract painting, False Start – which had sold in 1988 for $17m (£12m) – as “such a ridiculous thing”: “It is nothing. It is just a … number of diagonal scratches going in different directions in red and blue,” Bacon said.

Joule, who now lives in France, noted Bacon’s love of Paris, although “he said he couldn’t work there because there were too many distractions”.

He previously donated about 100 Bacon drawings based on Picasso to the Musée Picasso in Paris, which exhibited them in a large Bacon-Picasso exhibition in 2005. Shortly afterwards, the French government awarded him the Chevalier des Ordres des Arts et des Lettres: “It’s the equivalent of a knighthood. I gave them one-tenth of what I gave to the Tate and they knighted me … I never got a cup of coffee out of the Tate.”

Joule’s donation to France will now include a dramatic painted head that musician David Bowie particularly liked: “Bowie had an art publishing company and personally chose what art catalogues they would publish. He immediately agreed to do the catalogue for the 2001 exhibition of my Bacon archive at the London Barbican. Bowie chose this image for the front cover. Of course the Barbican and I agreed,” he said.

He added: “Many of these Bacon images in my collection have an engaging story to tell. That art history and my intimate knowledge of Bacon will be lost to the UK.”

A Tate spokeswoman declined to comment on the gallery’s handling of the 2004 gift. Asked about Joule’s cancellation of a further gift, she said: “We can confirm we have received the letter and will be responding to it.”

Sunday 24 April 2022. For the record. UK news. This weeks corrections. An article (“Friend of Francis Bacon snubs the Tate to give art works to Paris instead”, 17 April, p22) referred to Bacon’s work going to “the French National Archives in the Centre Pompidou Paris”. The French National Archives and the Centre Pompidou Paris are two separate organisations; we meant the archives of the latter.




                    Francis Bacon and Barry Joule on holiday in Sicily in 1987.                                                      Bacon and Joule with Catharina Toto Koopman in Sicily in 1987.






Hilary Fannin: Francis Bacon offers a kind of therapy




Bacon’s bleak vision is more in tune with the times than Bond Street’s glitzy shops






At London’s Oxford Circus Tube station the concertinaed gates had been temporarily drawn closed, the platforms below too congested to take any more commuters. In search of the Victoria line to Brixton, we walked, the three of us, towards Piccadilly and then on to New Bond Street, en route to Green Park station. My two companions walked ahead, talking quietly, amicably, about their shared past, postwar babies both, strolling through the city of their birth. I trailed behind them, looking in the windows of the designer shops.

Dawdling past the displays of frigid opulence on that warm spring evening, the minimalistically exhibited luxury accoutrements seemed, in the light of the increasingly devastating international news, quite bizarre.

The items on show – mother-of-pearl inlaid watches, lambskin “poodle-curve” high-heel sandals (hand-stitched by elves in a forest of primroses), tiny gold-chained handbags that wouldn’t fit much more than a credit card, a tube of Dior Rouge, a condom and a packet of vintage Marlboro – all appeared, as a contusion of purple clouds gathered overhead and a light rain began to fall, particularly vulgar and gracelessly misplaced.

But what do I know? I’ve never shopped on Bond Street, never experienced the rush of pleasure or the sense of belonging that proceeding under the marbled portico of a designer boutique to purchase a yellow shearling handbag might bring. I haven’t experienced the sense of accomplishment that some, apparently, derive from consuming high-end goods.

I don’t know how much the little furry yellow handbag cost; there was no price tag in the window. “If you need to ask…”, as the saying goes.

There was a similar handbag a few shops down, also very small and fluffy and tethered to a golden chain. This one, in shades of tangerine and brown, looked like it might bite; looked indeed as if it might have a row of tiny incisors underneath its pelt to snap the hand off anyone who might try to snaffle it. Mind you, given that it was retailing at around three grand, you’d expect it to do something for its keep.

We’d been at the Royal Academy that afternoon to see the Francis Bacon exhibition, Man and Beast. The uncompromising savagery of some of the Dublin-born artist’s images – many painted and exhibited in the immediate aftermath of the second World War – made them feel like the work, once again, of a man for the times.

Anguish is everywhere in this exhilarating show. It is in the studies of the figures at the base of a crucifixion; in the emaciated howling monkey on its shocking pink background; in the aghast, almost severed-looking heads of the popes, melting like wax on the canvas; in the deformed, mostly faceless bodies with screaming razor-toothed mouths. There is carnage, too, in the circular room full of massive orange canvases depicting the bullfight, in the broken bodies of matador and taunted beast.

The retrospective, spanning decades, at times felt almost too much. But then there was always the distraction of observing the other spectators, standing stock still and silent in front of the work, themselves adding another component to the dramas on the walls.

Some visitors to the gallery even brought along small foldable stools and perched, seated, in front of the paintings, staring intently at their details.

I watched one elderly man, his eyes wet with emotion, sit and lean forward towards the canvas as if he was trying to read it, to decipher in its language signs of hope or revelation.

I watched a magnificent woman with long dark hair, dressed in the palest yellow silk, her slim feet in jewelled shoes, stand in front of a painting called Two Figures in the Grass, in which two hunched lovers are coldly observed as if by a huntsman watching game.

Even if I was desperately rich; rich enough to schlep about in poodle-curve slingbacks with a tooth-baring reticule over my arm, I wouldn’t have paid to have a private view of this exhibition.

Although I’m aware that paying a few quid for the thrill of its unyieldingly bleak vision is itself a form of consumerism, experiencing it with other silent watchers gave me a momentary sense of belonging which, to be fair, I don’t think I’d get from purchasing a pair of diamante-encrusted sunglasses.

At Green Park station, the newspaper billboards told a grim story. I followed my companions down the escalator, dropping into the bowels of the city, reassured once more by the murmur of their equitable conversation, by the ordinary, unremarkable rhythm of our homeward journey.





              ‘Anguish is everywhere in this exhilarating show’. Head VI by Francis Bacon (1949). Man and Beast exhibition, Royal Academy, London.






Norman Scott has the last word on a very English scandal





The hypocrisy, class bias and establishment cover-up throughout the Thorpe affair is fully

revealed in Scott’s long-awaited memoir






I’m glad Norman Scott can say he has ‘always had the ability to laugh at the absurdity’ of his existence because, as detailed here in a long-awaited memoir, I too couldn’t stop shrieking, he is so tragic. When he came home unexpectedly as a youngster, for example, and witnessed his mother having sex in the lounge with a telephone engineer, he was so shocked he dropped his tortoise. ‘The terrible guilt over my tortoise stayed with me,’ he writes – maybe until just the other day. Scott is now 82.

He’ll always be remembered of course for the Jeremy Thorpe trial, when the judge, Mr Justice Cantley, called him a fraud, a sponger, a whiner and a parasite; and Scott’s haplessness is truly in a class of its own. I know he was played on television tenderly and sensitively by Ben Whishaw, but the personality in An Accidental Icon is more Jim Dale when, in one of the Carry Ons, he zoomed about tethered to a floor-polisher or clattered down steps on an iron bed frame. I lost count of the times Scott wakes up ‘strapped to an iron bed’, whether in psychiatric wards or when romantic assignations go awry: ‘I couldn’t move. My wrists and ankles were tied.’

A commingling of horror and farce is never distant. An unhappy childhood sets it all in motion: desertion, insecurity, violence. Scott had a stepfather who ‘got hold of Mummy by her hair and threw her down the stairs’. The nuns at his convent school were bullies. Friends were few. He had a stammer and curvature of the spine. He wet the bed; and any adult he met fiddled with his flies. ‘The sense of something unkind and unpleasant about to happen was always present.’

His mother was no support. She wanted to have him taken into care: ‘I can’t control him. He’s just difficult.’ Scott’s salvation was horses: ‘They didn’t see me as weak or vulnerable or someone they could manipulate.’ No, they simply threw him off, bucking like mad in ‘a nightmare of flailing hooves, sky, brown earth, splinters of wood’, leaving him concussed and with shattered vertebrae.

Scott is undoubtedly brave, mastering these vigorous creatures. He has spent his professional life in the equestrian world of dressage, three-day eventing, jumping and racing, and was employed as a stable lad and groom by many a ghastly old snob, bore, lunatic, sadist, bankrupt or associate of Princess Anne. One morning on his way to work he fell off his scooter, breaking limbs, which caused him to reflect: ‘I had found myself gripped by a bleak premonition that nothing would ever go right for me.’ Nor did it. The doctors put him on high doses of tranquillisers and antidepressants and he found it impossible to sustain relationships.

In one typical sequence he moves in with someone in the Cotswolds. Their mental anxieties clash and soon everyone is ‘placed in a psychiatric clinic’. They escape, rent a flat in Oxford and ‘within a week Jane had slashed her wrists’; the other person, Brian, gets drunk and hurls a pass (‘he was a big, strong man and at first I was very scared of him’), before somebody else switches on all the gas taps. Scott throws a chair through a window and goes for a walk with Brian, who tries to drown them both in the canal. Later on the gas trick is tried again, and Brian was ‘standing over me, holding a knife’.

This sort of caper happens every day. Friends vanish and turn up in Australia or commit suicide in Wales. Scott is always getting the wrong train, or finding himself stranded in the middle of nowhere, his luggage lost. Businesses close down, leaving him in the lurch. Helicopters buzz his bungalow. Pranksters phone up pretending to be Michael Heseltine. Doctors he trusts are struck off. One minute he is a male model in London, sharing premises with Margot Fonteyn (‘she spoke about her involvement in the Panamanian revolution’), the next he is in Dublin, being intimate with a member of the Dáil and Elizabeth Taylor’s secretary – Taylor and Richard Burton having ‘returned to the yacht to be with their pet dogs’. If this is meant to be 1964, the only time the Burtons were in Ireland, then it’s worth mentioning they didn’t acquire a yacht until May 1967.

I relished this book’s celebrity cameos. In a Dulwich flat filled with ‘flamboyant and extrovert’ sorts, Lord Snowdon is glimpsed. Scott’s mother’s best friend was Dorothy Squires. When Scott was (very briefly) married in 1969, he spent his honeymoon in a cottage owned by Terry-Thomas and there were elderly Czech refugees hiding in the bathroom. Scott says he slept with Francis Bacon, who snored, and next morning said: ‘You’re not my usual type.’ Scott’s favourite West Country pub was run by the son of Fanny Cradock.

Thorpe, who first encountered Scott at one of those grisly stables, was intrigued enough by the sound of this picaresque existence to give him his telephone number – and Scott, who during one low ebb ‘ended up sleeping in the men’s lavatories in Barnstable’, was naive enough to believe that Thorpe could rescue him. He appeared at the House of Commons, where the MP ‘put his arm round me in a warm friendly gesture’. Thorpe took Scott home to meet his mother, a grim old trout called Ursula, who knew the score. The abuse began immediately. Scott relates how ‘he held me down with great force as he thrust violently into my body. It hurt so much I was gasping with pain.’ Thorpe took full advantage of a vulnerable, medicated person. ‘I was forced,’ says Scott, ‘into non-consensual, illegal, agonising sex by a man in a position of considerable power and influence... I was just a vessel for his pleasure.’ One interesting fact emerges: Thorpe had nodules on his balls.

Scott had no redress. No one was interested in his complaints. ‘I just don’t believe you,’ said David Steel. ‘I don’t believe this could have happened.’ Evidence went missing. Briefcases containing letters were stolen. The authorities treated Scott as a blackmailer. Several times he was roughed up by the police or security services. ‘If you don’t cooperate, I have the power to lock you away and you won’t see the light of day for 14 years,’ he was told, before having his head banged against a cell wall. Thorpe kept Scott’s National Insurance cards, in an attempt to control him, and Peter Bessell, the Liberal member for Bodmin, paid Scott a weekly retainer to ensure his silence. Thorpe, meantime, seduced sailors at Dan Farson’s pub on the Isle of Dogs. He was thoroughly homosexual, despite two marriages. Being with a woman was ‘like making love to cold rice pudding’, Thorpe claimed. On one occasion he sodomised Scott against Selwyn Lloyd’s garden wall.

The bungled murder attempt on Exmoor is well known, but increasingly bizarre in retrospect. The failed assassin, Andrew Newton, who’d later become a rubber fetishist, initially went to Dunstable, mistaking it for Barnstaple. After he shot Rinka, the Great Dane, the gun jammed, so he fled. ‘They have shot my dog and they tried to shoot me!’ said Scott, covered in Rinka’s blood. Owing to his homosexuality – thus ‘hysterical, vindictive’ and ‘a dreadful pervert’– he was accorded little sympathy. That was the cruel line taken by George Carman, defending Thorpe at the subsequent trial in 1979. Scott’s evidence was worthless because he was weak, soft, poisonous and paranoid. Thorpe, by contrast, was ‘a statesman of courage and truth’ and, despite documentation of his lies, manipulation and financial embezzlement, was acquitted.

It was the greatest miscarriage of justice of modern times – Thorpe getting away with his murderous conspiracy through class bias, homophobia, hypocrisy and establishment cover-up. Scott says there was even talk of Thorpe’s wanting him chucked down a Cornish mine or dumped in the Florida Everglades. He is to be applauded, therefore, for surviving to have the last word. He deserves a medal for his resilience.

Norman Scott, An Accidental Icon: How I Dodged a Bullet, Spoke Truth to Power and Lived to Tell the Tale, Hodder, pp. 336, £20





Howard Jacobson’s Diary: Home-front warriors


and Francis Bacon’s waning shock value



The spectacle of genuine horror unfolding in Ukraine throws into


perspective our more synthetic outrages.





So now we know what tyranny actually looks like up close and personal, we must wonder what those intrepid warriors who faced the might of Priti Patel to defend their right not to wear a paper mask have to say about their struggle. “I suppose we were being a mite silly”? Not a bit of it. “We stand vindicated” is my bet. “See? Isn’t this exactly what we warned against? Allow them to stick a needle in our arms today and they’ll be occupying the Isle of Wight tomorrow.”

And what of those who’ve been bowdlerising Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare lest it creates panic in the playground? How are they explaining the horrors of war to their little ones? “Darling, they’re only lying down to take a rest. It’s a game, like paper, stone and scissors, only don’t use the word scissors in this house. Now dry your eyes, turn off the television and get back to reading that comic of King Lear I bought you, the one without the naughty daughters, the rude clown, the bad weather and the blinding scene.”


Screen solace

I can’t pretend I’ve been any more heroic myself. I too was waking wet-cheeked until I stopped doom-scrolling before bed. In fact, what I was doing was more like false-solace-scrolling. Tell me the Ukrainians have shot down the entirety of the Russian air force. Tell me the Russian people have suddenly begun to wonder why opposition politicians in their country are always going away and not coming back. Tell me Zelensky’s flying in to do Live at the Apollo. Sing me a nice hymn. “All things bright and beautiful…”


Writing is reality

Beyond that, I’m making a reasonable fist – sorry, sorry, not fist, job – of following Kingsley Amis’s advice to writers to forget all about a book the minute they finish writing it and get stuck into a new one. This is to forestall the disappointment that invariably waits on publication. The world will look no different the day it appears in print, he warned. And he’s right. A few appreciative words from an astute reviewer, a handshake dipped in Novichok from an embittered fellow writer, someone mistaking me for Alan Yentob on Regent Street, otherwise all is as it was before.

So it’s back to the desk and the pleasure of actually writing, which must never be confused with the siren distractions of praise or dispraise, publicity or the lack of it, and worry about one’s legacy. A writer’s only legacy is the sentence that comes after the one before.


Paint and politeness

I suspect Francis Bacon would have agreed with me. My only subject is paint, he said to someone. By which I take him to have meant his only lasting purpose and pleasure was paint. As opposed to getting sloshed in Soho. I usually leave it too late to go to the great art shows in London, which must bespeak some deep reluctance to see them, or at least to being told I must, but I made it just in time to catch Francis Bacon: Man and Beast at the Royal Academy, on the way to which I was mistaken twice: once for Waldemar Januszczak and, for a second time, though not by the same person, for Alan Yentob.

It was a bold, well curated show with informative wall notes in the English language, rather than that academic socio-speak that squeezes the vitality out of every canvas it describes in the name of precisely those abstractions art abhors. How much I like Bacon’s work I can’t decide. There’s some disconnect that bothers me between the raw animality of what he paints and the serenely civilised demeanour of those looking at it. What beasts we are, except when we’re looking at Francis Bacon!

You can’t blame him for the way he’s looked at, of course, but you can wonder why work so obviously intended to be disturbing barely disturbs a hair of his admirers’ heads. How do I know that? Well, put it this way: it barely disturbs a hair of mine. Are we too used to it now? Has Bacon dated already? Or was it always less harrowing than it purported to be – more kitsch than horror, more partygate than Mariupol?

We play happily with plasticine bestiality until the real thing bursts into the nursery. Suddenly I find myself thinking Boris Johnson’s not so bad. When hell unlooses demons, what’s a scoundrel more or less?

Howard Jacobson’s memoir “Mother’s Boy: A Writer’s Beginnings” is published by Jonathan Cape








David Lynch once named his favourite artist of all time






David Lynch has always maintained that he is not just a filmmaker. Even though he is considered to be one of the greatest pioneers of surrealist cinema, Lynch has actively ventured into other areas of artistic expression such as music and painting. In fact, a major part of Lynch’s cinematic vision has been deeply influenced by his formative training as a painter.

During his college years, Lynch decided that he was going to pursue a career in painting and had even travelled to Europe in order to learn from the famous expressionist painter Oskar Kokoschka but it never ended up happening. Upon returning to America, Lynch found a different kind of liberation in making short films after being moved by the grotesque surrealism of Philadelphia.

In many interviews, Lynch has stated that he conceptualises the artistic process as something very similar to fishing. According to the legendary director, one has to bait ideas as if they were elusive fishes. “If you catch an idea that you love, it is a beautiful, beautiful day,” he declared. Adding to his comments, Lynch explained: “In the other room, the puzzle is all together but they keep flipping it one piece at a time.”

These conceptualisations are very familiar to those who have seen Lynch’s work, especially incomprehensibly alluring projects such as Eraserhead and Twin Peaks. While Lynch drew from the contributions of other directors like Werner Herzog, he was also motivated by masters of painting. Specifically, Lynch named the enigmatic painter Francis Bacon as a chief source of inspiration.

Lynch’s films have been described as paintings themselves by many people, including Jeremy Irons who compared Lynch’s works to Rothko paintings. However, the influence of Bacon throughout the filmography of the director is pretty apparent. Lynch discovered the works of Bacon early on in his life, being moved by them for the first time at a gallery in 1966.

According to a popular myth, Lynch’s interest in filmmaking was generated when he asked himself “How would I do a moving painting?” after one of his paintings was moved by the wind. The unsettling art of Francis Bacon played a major role in showing Lynch how visual images can have emotional momentum and can even project movement.

Looking back on the experience of discovering Bacon, Lynch described it as “a beautiful storm” and “thrilling”. Later on, he would use Bacon’s paintings like Portrait of a Man and Two Figures at a Window for visual inspiration in Twin Peaks. While the iconic Red Room of Twin Peaks was also directly influenced by Bacon, Lynch based the look of the protagonist of his 1980 masterpiece The Elephant Man on Bacon’s Self-Portrait 1969.




           Lynch based the protagonist of The Elephant Man on Bacon’s Self-Portrait 1969.





Spying an opportunity – how Francis Bacon made it to Moscow







As his plane touched down in Moscow in 1986 the young English gallerist James Birch saw ‘low grey clouds, military vehicles and […] apparently endless birch forest’. It was, he says, ‘exactly what I expected to see’. Birch was there on a wing and prayer, trying to get some of his stable of young contemporary artists, which included a nudist collective and a young Grayson Perry, a gallery show in the Soviet Union. This, he soon realises, was never going to work, but when his KGB minder-cum-cultural-collaborator, Sergei Klokov – who serves as the book’s amoral anti-hero – introduces him to some penniless Soviet artists, they soon all have the name of the same Western artist on their lips: Francis Bacon. As it happens, Birch has known Bacon since childhood, and an idea takes root.

Birch’s account of his struggle to stage the show, the first of a living Western artist ever to exhibit in the Soviet Union, barring Chagall, who was after all born in the Russian empire, reads as if he were recounting it to you over drinks at the Colony Room – which, it seems, is where almost everything got done in the London art world of the 1980s. As well as an intriguing portrait of Bacon himself, there are cameos from Soho sleaze baron Paul Raymond, Grayson Perry and Grisha Bruskin, as well as (inevitably) a raven-haired Russian beauty, the fashion designer and KGB informant Elena Khudiakova, and the great textile expert and scholar of Dagestan Robert Chenciner, whose idea it was for Birch to go to the Soviet Union in the first place.

But beyond being a garrulous yarn of a memoir (the word ‘rollicking’ is used twice on the dust jacket), the book is a record of an extraordinary encounter at a momentous time. Based on Birch’s journals, letters from Bacon, Klokov and others, and illustrated with the author’s pictures of Russia and a gazetteer to the Bacon exhibition, with reproductions of all the paintings, there is some proper art history being smuggled into this book, like a bottle of scotch entering the USSR.

Birch gives an engaging account of his struggles to stage the show. First, dealing with an opaque Soviet system in which nothing makes sense: machinations involving the Union of Artists, the delegation to UNESCO and mysterious, unseen wielders of influence. All this would seem like so much Cold-War cliché until he gets back to London to deal with the capitalist equivalent: insurance companies, cultural grandees and gatekeepers from Bacon’s gallery and the British Council – as well as the vanities and resentments of the great man’s inner circle, which ultimately meant that Bacon never travelled to the Soviet Union to see his own triumph.

The exhibition itself – at the Central House of the Union of Artists in Moscow in 1988 – was a watershed, a set-piece of perestroika, and an indication of what Gorbachev wanted the Soviet Union to become. It would now be called cultural diplomacy, an expression of ‘soft power’ but, as the memoir shows, Russia in the 1980s exerted its own soft power on those from the West, not least James Birch, who later comes to realise he has developed the ‘Russia bug’.

Some 400,000 people visited the exhibition during its six-week run, many queuing for hours for a chance to see Bacon’s disturbing vision of humanity – his twisted forms the polar opposite of the smiling-but-sexless musclebound workers and peasants of so much officially sanctioned art. Indeed, only one painting was forbidden by the Soviet censors, Triptych from 1972, which depicts gay sex. Birch had been warned by Klokov not to include too many ‘cock-exalting’ pictures, and Klokov later provided the excuse to the Independent that its inclusion might have led Soviet society to dismiss the entire show. Even so, the reception was not universally positive. Included as an appendix are selections from the visitors’ book: ‘I haven’t seen anything like this before in my life,’ ‘The exhibition reminds me that madness is real,’ and, most memorably of all, ‘We want bacon, not Francis Bacon.’

We all know what happened next. Within four years, the USSR would be no more, although Birch would get one more exhibition in just below the line; he brought Gilbert & George to Moscow in 1990, but does not record what the Soviets thought of their underpants. The borders would open – for those who could afford travel – and the entirety of Western modern art would become available to the peoples of the Soviet Union. It was a two-way street of course. Russian artists such as Bruskin would become millionaires and move to New York, while some of Klokov’s circle (though not Klokov himself) would become billionaires and furnish their London homes with paintings by Bacon. James Birch would become rich and successful, though as this book shows he would never lose his roguish, self-deprecating charm, and has never left the demi-monde of the Soho art scene.

There is a particular pathos reading Bacon in Moscow now, as Russian aggression flattens cities in Ukraine and the resulting sanctions cut off Russia from the West more than at any time since Birch’s first visit in 1986. The Russian invasion of neighbouring Ukraine shows that the experiment that began during perestroika has definitively failed. The country is again becoming the secretive pariah state in which Birch landed all those years ago, with KGB-style surveillance, low grey clouds and military vehicles on the runway.










Francis Bacon, David Hockney and Picasso: Inside their studios




Meticulously tidy or a horrible mess? To really know an artist, just look at their studio






One of the perks of being an art critic is that you get to visit artist’s studios. Sometimes, I manage to inveigle my way into the alchemist’s lair for the simple reason that I’m dying to see it. Studios are such fascinating and telling sites of work.

When I interviewed Yoko Ono in New York, she showed me the spaces in the Dakota Building in which she and John Lennon had lived and worked. In a big white room was the big white piano on which she and Lennon had recorded Imagine. Next to it was a looming golden sarcophagus containing an unwrapped Egyptian mummy!

But the really telling moment came in the kitchen. Next to the large table where she did most of her work was a fridge plastered with photos, attached with magnets. I looked closer. They were private photos of John. Polaroids. Kodak snaps. Yoko makes cool, purist art. Most of it is strikingly white. But the loving emotions that hide behind her purist whites were laid bare on the fridge of her working kitchen.

When you get inside an artist’s studio, you get inside their intimacy zone. Studios are mini museums not just of the artist’s materials and methods, but also of their minds. And the really marvellous thing, the miraculous thing, is what happens when the materials and the minds coalesce to illuminate the art.

The other day I went to interview David Hockney in his studio in Normandy and was struck by the dramatic sense of order in his converted barn. Everything was in exactly the right place. Hundreds of tubes of acrylic paint were arranged in perfectly neat rows, like those army parades you see in footage from North Korea. Every brush was spotlessly clean and standing to attention in a glass jar. Here, clearly, was an 84-year-old artist determined not to waste a second that was left to him. The studio was as ready to go as an Olympic sprinter in the blocks.

That, then, is one kind of workplace: neat and minutely organised. I bet Vermeer’s studio was like that. Or the studio of Ingres. It’s an arrangement that fills me with respect and admiration. But, hand on heart, it is not the kind of studio that sends the pulse racing. For that to happen you need mess.

A classic example is Francis Bacon’s germ-filled and chaotic work room, which we’ll come to in a moment when we visit The Artist’s Studio, the new show at the Whitechapel Gallery. I never made it into Bacon’s abattoir, but I came close when I interviewed Louise Bourgeois in her profoundly disordered studio/home in Greenwich Village.

Bourgeois was in her eighties. Every inch of her tall, thin brownstone was packed with drawings, manikins, plaster casts, reams and reams of cloth and materials. If a cat died somewhere in the clutter you would never have found it. Had she not been an artist — one of the greatest the world has seen, I think — social services would have been called in to put her in a home. But that’s the thing about studios: they are not part of the “normal” world.

It’s a point that keeps being made by the Whitechapel’s appropriately chaotic event. Looking back on a century of artist’s studios, from 1920 to 2020, this crowded, throbbing parade has evidently had serious difficulty managing its subject. As a show it’s all over the place. Some of this chaos comes with the territory. But not all. Some is down to contemporary overthinking.

What they seek to present us with here — it’s announced in the opening wall texts — is the studio not just as a private place of work, but also as a public domain. We will be visiting not only the places where artists make art but also the ways in which they present themselves to the public. These are two reasonable ambitions. Each would make a reasonable show. But they are not the same ambition, and the divide between them keeps derailing this event.

We begin with a moody Bourgeois sculpture, one of her atmospheric cages, inside which two marble carvings of the artist’s hands sit atop a roughly hewn altar, surrounded by mirrors. As an artistic statement — a tribute to the artist’s hands — it’s powerful and resonant. But to feel these powerful meanings you need to concentrate on the hands and forget the studio.

The busy journey ahead — 80 artists! — is packed with such detours. For every tangible evocation of a studio, like the grubby but fascinating recreation of the pictorial compost in which Bacon worked, there are intrusions of a different kind of subject matter. The Nigerian artist Rotimi Fani-Kayode takes subfusc homoerotic photographs styled deliberately on Caravaggio. They’re beautiful. But they say nothing tangible about artist’s studios. The Egyptian painter Inji Efflatoun stares soulfully at us from a self-portrait. It’s nice to discover her. But the image clearly belongs in a self-portrait show.

As the display bounces between its confusing ambitions we keep getting glimpses of artist’s studios and then having them taken away. It’s the sort of problem that regularly afflicts contemporary theme shows. In their urge to get away from traditional, one-directional, masculinist tellings of a story, they end up saying nothing solid.

Here, though, it needs also to be admitted that the studio of today is not what it used to be. The cost of urban hire has turned them into expensive luxuries. And modern methods of communication have done away with much of the need for fixed art spaces. The old idea of a sacred locus in which artists could work their magic has been replaced by a shifting reality where artists plan their art on portable workstations and travel the world with their MacBook Airs.

The Artist’s Studio makes a point of noticing these changes. Indeed, it is as much a celebration of them as a record of the old ways. I find that sad. Others will not.

The Artist’s Studio, Whitechapel Gallery, London E1, until June 5




     Lovingly preserved, piece by piece, Francis Bacon’s famous studio was moved from London in 1998 and is now on show in all its notorious squalor at the Hugh Lane Gallery in Dublin.






Astragal: Russian exit and no Bacon







This month Foster + Partners said it would stop working in Russia, as it ‘deplored’ the country’s invasion of Ukraine. The announcement came a week after similar statements by Zaha Hadid Architects and David Chipperfield Architects.

Given that the Russian ruble has lost 43 per cent of its value against the pound since the start of the year – and sanctions are targeting a growing number of Russian companies, including banks – this may not be quite the principled sacrifice it appears.

Either way, Foster + Partners chairman Norman Foster is still making ends meet, having also this month sold a triptych by painter Francis Bacon. The artwork features, among other things, a blood-soaked sheet on the recording equipment of Leon Trotsky, the Marxist revolutionary Ukrainian assassinated by the Soviet state in 1940. The 1987 piece sold at Christie’s auction house for its minimum asking price: £35 million.





Bringing Out The Beast At Royal Academy’s Francis Bacon Exhibition






London’s Royal Academy of Arts is presenting a solo exhibition of 46 paintings by Francis Bacon, one of the most celebrated and influential artists of the 20th century, spanning from the 1930s and 40s through to Bacon’s final painting in 1991. Finding common ground between human and animal, exploring how animals are less inhibited versions of ourselves, bulls, chimpanzees, humans and other beasts are portrayed with a pitiless, unflinching eye.

In an accompanying video to “Francis Bacon: Man and Beast”, Michael Peppiatt, co-curator and friend of Francis Bacon, talks of Bacon’s fascination with animals. “He wanted to know what humans were, and what they were made up of. Animals took you to that truth more directly and quickly. They are a guide to humanity”. Bacon grew up around animals, particularly horses, in rural Ireland, but turned towards them most markedly after his visits to Africa in the early 1950s. He believed that to look at animals is to look at mankind beneath the veneer of civilisation, and to see what we really are. In so doing, we are faced with, in Bacon’s own words, “The brutality of fact”. This exhibition is based on that premise.

It is said that, shortly before his death, Shakespearean actor Laurence Olivier spent his days watching films starring Vivien Leigh, with tears in his eyes exclaiming “This, this was love”. The spark and the passion endures, the remnants of longing, the petty vengeances, the sulking betrayals and joyous reconciliations live on. Bacon had to come to terms with the death of two of those closest to him during his lifetime: Peter Lacy died of alcoholism in 1962, aged 46, while his subsequent partner, George Dyer, died of an overdose in 1971. Like Olivier and Leigh, this was love at its most raw and tempestuous—Lacy once threw Bacon out of a window.

 In a video interview introducing the exhibition, Peppiatt remarks: “These pictures are almost too much to bear. Because they look at life with a pitilessness”. Bacon’s memories of Lacy and Dyer were fertile ground for his exploration of humanity at its most exposed and defenceless. In Bacon’s Study for Portrait of P.L. No. 1 (1957), Lacy is curled up on the sofa like a domestic pet, a depleted figure of abject sorrow and misery, cowed and vulnerable. To look at this painting is to hover over an abyss of despair. In Triptych August 1972 (1972), one in a series of Black Triptychs painted after Dyer’s death, the central image is a life and death wrestling match, perhaps one of love and death. Dyer and Bacon sit patiently, separately either side. The dark emptiness of death does not dominate but projects a hushed glow of anticipation.

Bacon’s intense interest in the photographs of Eadweard Muybridge (1830–1904) vindicates the joint top billing of man and beast in this exhibition. Known as the man who proved that horses can fly, Muybridge’s harnessing of the camera to document motion of both humans and animals was prime source material for Bacon, who owned several copies of The Human Figure in Motion (1901) and Animals in Motion (1899). Several of the paintings on display directly echo Muybridge’s ground-breaking anatomical photography, notably Two Studies from the Human Body (1974–75) and Man with Dog (1953).

Not all of the forms are recognisably animal or human. Some are in between—these are the “beasts” of the title perhaps. In Figure Study II (1945–46), an elongated figure bows and peers, with trappings of domestic mundanity dotted around her—her dimensions are palpably not human, yet she is a redoubtable force of sentience and intelligence. Second Version of Triptych (1944), a reworking of his Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion (1944) presents what Bacon describes as his “Furies”, women of a kind, principally mythological harbingers of vengeance. One critic described this painting as depicting “the atrocious world into which we have survived”. Bacon’s world is one where religion lends its stories, props and language to illustrate a reality of fear and hopelessness. An example is Head VI (1949), a satisfying injection of one of Bacon’s most iconic motifs. Inspired by Portrait of Pope Innocent X by Diego Velázquez (1650), the purple robed, ghostly figure screams in primal horror or fear—this is mankind, mouth agape, releasing its inner beast in surrender to the terrors around it.

In 1969, Bacon began to depict bullfighting, perhaps the ultimate showdown of man and animal, and an opportunity to blur the lines between them. The corrida became a theme he returned to in later decades, and it is at the heart of his final painting, Study of a Bull (1991). Poignantly, Bacon employed dust as a medium in this work, commenting: “Dust seems to be eternal . . . the one thing that lasts forever”.

For an artist who roguishly dressed his works in Christian themes, his remark about dust is in character. Whilst Christians are told on Ash Wednesday that “Dust you are, and to dust you shall return”, Bacon muses on the immortality of that medium rather than our own transience. In so doing, he underlines the power and endurance of art itself. Visitors to this exhibition will most likely reflect on the gratifying immortality of human passion—how it retains its power to shock and unsettle us, even when the fires of love have burned out.





              Francis Bacon, Study from Portrait of Pope Innocent X, 1965. Installation view in “Francis Bacon: Man and Beast”





A tawdry death imitating art




Francis Bacon’s turbulent love for George Dyer is visible on the canvas






One night in late 1963, Francis Bacon was at his studio at 7 Reece Mews in South Kensington when he heard a loud crash followed by scrabbling noises. He rushed upstairs to find that a burglar had just slipped and tumbled through the skylight.

Bacon confronted him, sized him up and gave him an instant ultimatum: they must have sex there and then or he would call the police. This is how Bacon first met George Dyer, a petty criminal from Borough, just south of the Thames, who would become one of the painter’s great loves.

At least it is one version of how they met. Lucian Freud offered a rather less picaresque alternative: the pair met in a club and went back to Reece Mews to seal the new acquaintance. Freud added that Bacon expected to be robbed by his casual squeezes — usually it was a watch that went missing. This time, however, Bacon was the recipient: Dyer gave him a gold watch, albeit one he had stolen the night before.

Dyer would go on to feature in some 20 paintings by Bacon, although he never liked them: “I think they’re fuckin’ ’orrible, really fuckin’ orful,” he told Bacon’s friend, Michael Peppiatt. If Bacon believed that “a thing has to arrive at a stage of deformity before I can find it beautiful,” Dyer didn’t. However, perhaps the most important pictures to emerge from the relationship were painted after Dyer’s death in 1971. Then, in mourning, Bacon produced three works, known as the “Black triptychs”, with Dyer, transmuted, in every panel.

The first of them, Triptych August 1972, is currently on show at the Royal Academy’s uncomfortable if stirring exhibition, “Francis Bacon: Man and Beast”. Even fifty years on, it remains an upsetting work. Dyer is shown twice seated, in nothing but his underpants, in front of a black door opening as he appears to melt into a pink puddle on the floor. In the third canvas he is on the ground, either in his death throes or tangled with Bacon as they have sex.

Bacon famously refused to explain his pictures but nevertheless admitted that while he wasn’t trying to express “the sorrow about somebody committing suicide … perhaps it comes through without knowing it”. If so, the visual metaphors — a dark portal to a void, dissolving forms as if life itself is seeping away — seem straightforward enough.

In a second work, Triptych May-June, 1973, they are even more obvious. In its panels, Dyer is shown in the dark of the doorway, sitting on the toilet, retching into a sink, and liquefying into the shape of a black bat. The picture, said the artist, “is in fact the nearest I’ve ever done to a story” because it shows how Dyer was found, dead from alcohol and amphetamines in their hotel bathroom, on the eve of Bacon’s 1971 retrospective at the Grand Palais in Paris. Such an exhibition was only the second time that the honour had been granted to a living painter and was supposed to be the crowning moment of Bacon’s career.

By then the relationship between the two men had soured, exacerbated by Dyer’s drinking and drug taking and a series of unpleasant incidents. Dyer, by turns maudlin, possessive and vindictive, had planted cannabis in Bacon’s studio and called the police; in New York he had threatened to hurl himself from a skyscraper — again the police were summoned; and he had thrown Bacon’s furniture down the stairs at Reece Mews, blocking the painter out. As Freud (again) said: “It was awfully tragic, really. Francis stopped fancying him and George was in love with him.”

Bacon seemingly invited Dyer to accompany him to Paris out of pity. He was told of Dyer’s death just before the exhibition opening and went through the full meet-and-greet rigmarole knowing that his lover of nearly 20 years was dead nearby, in the most ignominious of circumstances.

As added torture, shortly after their relationship began, Bacon had painted Dyer on the toilet as part of an earlier triptych, Three Figures in a Room, 1964 (also in the RA show). He would never know if the conditions of Dyer’s death were a coincidence or some form of mockery or accusation.

Dyer’s death was one of several in Bacon’s circle around the time, including that of his childhood nanny, Jesse Lightfoot, who lived with him in London, ministering to him just as she had when he was a boy. Bacon claimed not to think about it: “because there’s nothing to think about. When it comes, it’s there. You’ve had it.” Nevertheless, a greater morbidity can be sensed in his paintings from that time on.

Bacon remained addicted to rough-trade lovers — a legless Moroccan in Tangier who pushed himself around on a wheeled board, another who interrupted a conversation about Bonnard with an art critic by asking “Are you ready for a thrashin’ yet, Francis?”, and assorted couplings near Tube stations and at rooms-by-the-hour hotels. Even when he was in his eighties Bacon would look at men “as if everything is still to play for”.

These though were transient fancies and did not make it on to canvas the way Dyer had. According to Bacon, “You always have to go too far to get anywhere at all, in art or life.” He did indeed get somewhere with his posthumous triptychs, but it was Dyer who had gone too far.





                                                                                                                                                         A detail of Triptych August 1972






THAMES MMXX Readies a Collection Celebrating the Works of Francis Bacon




Featuring five paintings by the British figurative painter.






For its latest collaboration, Blondey McCoy’s THAMES MMXX  has worked together with the Estate of Francis Bacon on a full collection. Comprised of twelve styles, the special range is centered around select paintings by the Irish-born British figurative painter.

A work jacket, hoodie, crewneck sweater, viscose shirt, T-shirts, beach towel, skateboards and printed booklet bring THAMES MMXX’s distinct take on streetwear with Francis Bacon’s raw imagery. Works featured include Study from Portrait of Pope Innocent X by Velázquez (1959), Two Figures Lying on a Bed with Attendants (1968), Self-Portrait (1969), Oedipus and the Sphinx after Ingres (1983) and Chicken (1982). Ensuring the original qualities of each painting, the compositions and emotive color characteristics of the imagery depicting popes, self-portraits, nude figure studies, mythology and meat are maintained. Additionally, the limited run of 100 and numbered skate decks split paintings, mirroring Bacon’s affinity for separating his compositions.

Limited to 1,000 copies and free with the first 250 orders, the accompanying booklet highlights the breadth and depth of Francis Bacon’s life and work, art directed by Blondey. The print work features pictures of the collection’s campaign, starring Swedish skateboarder Ludvig Håkansson and shot by esteemed fashion photographer Daniel Martensen. Images of the paintings featured throughout the collection are also shown with selected quotes.

“For six or seven years now, I have caught myself standing in front of fucking great paintings, not wholly incapable of appreciating them, as such…but always, always noting the voice in my head saying, ‘it’s great, but it’s not Bacon,’ or words to that effect. Silly, I know, but there you are. I do try to suppress the voice. To simply appreciate other painters and paintings for who or what they are. But the man set the bar at such a height or, rather, in such a way that I find it near-enough impossible. The THAMES MMXX. x Francis Bacon collection is an attempt to thank him for that,” said Blondey McCoy Founder and Creative Director of THAMES MMXX.

Check out the range above and look for the Francis Bacon x THAMES MMXX collection to be available on THAMES MMX’s website March 25, 7 a.m. EDT.









Valuable reassessment of British art: Barbican’s Postwar Modern




This show succeeds in revealing numerous half-forgotten movements – and contains some out-and-out masterpieces






Notoriously, the past is another country: what’s more, it’s a terrain for which the guidebooks need constantly to be rewritten. That’s one attraction of the new exhibition Postwar Modern at the Barbican. It’s a survey of what might seem all-too-familiar territory: British art in the two decades that followed VE day. Yet it succeeds in revealing numerous half-forgotten or undervalued movements and people, the good, the bad and – most intriguingly – candidates for reassessment.

The decades that followed the second world war were marked by dreary austerity, perhaps explaining the tendency for the art to be coloured oatmeal, beige, grey and brown. But this was also a time of dawning hope, increasing prosperity and growing optimism. One of the out-and-out masterpieces on display, Leon Kossoff’s ‘Willesden Junction, Early Morning’ (1962), manages to embody both these contradictory moods.

It is executed in shades of sludge, while the subject – a snaking tangle of railway lines under overcast sky – is the reverse of picturesque. But when you see the actual picture, it knocks you back on your heels. The thickly encrusted paint is pulsing with force and energy.

Here Kossoff presents something banally familiar, north London commuter transport, but in a way so utterly fresh you might think the artist was from another galaxy or a different age. Frank Auerbach pulls off a similar feat in his marvellous ‘Head of Gerda Boehm’ (1964), a portrait of a modern woman that looks like something excavated from an archaeological site. It was painted in 1964 but you could believe it came from Mycenae or Babylon.

From Lucian Freud there is a trio of early masterpieces, depicting his first wife, Kitty Garman, and second, Caroline Blackwood. The almost incredible levels of observation and precision that he then achieved are visible if you look into the eyes of ‘Girl with Roses’. In each of her pupils the sash window of his studio is clearly reflected. Worlds within worlds, observed in the rundown area of Paddington where Freud worked.

Francis Bacon fares less well in this selection, understandably since there is a phenomenal exhibition of his greatest works elsewhere in London. The trio of his pictures at the Barbican are of lower wattage. On this basis it would be hard to explain the enormous impact Bacon had on his contemporaries. But his example was crucial, for his audacious ambition as much as for his actual pictures.

On the opposite side of the divide between figurative and non-figurative art, Alan Davie was perhaps the nearest thing Britain produced to a true abstract expressionist. He was also one of those artists who were only briefly on peak form – at more or less the moment of the two works in this show. His ‘Creation of Eve’ (1957) looks roughly like a half-and-half mix of Pollock and Bacon: a swirling mass of brushstrokes disquietingly like body parts and innards.

Even better is Frank Bowling’s ‘Big Bird’ (1965), in which two wounded and bleeding swans flutter against geometric areas of colour (borrowed from abstraction). These birds stand, Bowling explained, for ‘people who had broken lives’, adding, ‘If you don’t straighten up and fly right, you’re going to end up in the gutter.’ There’s a touch of Bacon here too, in the splattered gore and free-flying paint. Altogether more buoyant, indeed sumptuous and ebullient, is Gillian Ayres’s ‘Break-off’ (1961) in which a whole genus of new organisms like plankton or protozoa seem to float out of the canvas.

Biology was one of the obsessions of the age, as was science fiction. The ‘action sculptures’ of the short-lived Peter King suggest both: inchoate masses of material which seem just on the point of transformation into a body or a face. Something similar is true of Eduardo Paolozzi’s strange sentinel figures made by pressing bits and pieces of detritus into clay and suggesting robots, but also vagrants.

To my eye, though, the most effective three-dimensional works on show are not conventional sculptures but an array of pots by Lucie Rie and Hans Coper (both refugees from the Nazis). Coper especially was able to create forms and surfaces that look as if they might belong to an ancient culture and were simultaneously filled with the spirit of the times. His ‘hourglass’ vases are a bit like miniature versions of those monumental works of the 1960s, the cooling towers at power stations.

There is much more, too much to describe here, including remarkable documentary photographs by Roger Mayne and Nigel Henderson. Other artists and idioms and reputations remain in the not-to-be-resuscitated category. But, having said that, it’s true that our view of the past continues to alter as the present unfolds.

That’s happening as I write to works by Elisabeth Frink, William Turnbull and Lynn Chadwick in the idiom known as ‘geometry of fear’. These sculptural evocations of tangled metal, ruined cities and burned, blasted bodies used to seem like relics of a distant age. In the past few days, they’ve started to look horribly close to news reports.

Postwar Modern: New Art in Britain 1945-1965  

Barbican Art Gallery, until 26 June





Chelsea art dealer owes us royalties going back 16 years, artists tell court




Ivor Braka, who sold a Francis Bacon painting for $50 million, is accused of denying ‘desperately needed’

income to painters and creatives






A high-profile Chelsea art dealer has become embroiled in a High Court battle over claims that he hasn’t paid royalties in 16 years.

Ivor Braka and his company, Ivor Braka Ltd, have not paid any royalties or revealed what artworks they have traded, despite reporting sales of goods of over £9 million, a judge was told this week.

Since 2006, art dealers have been required to pay royalties to living artists if they resell their works.

Mr Braka is well known in the art world, having once sold a Francis Bacon painting for $50 million (£38 million) and amassed a sizeable private collection, including works by Damian Hirst.

The Artists’ Collecting Society (ACS) and the Design and Artists Copyright Society (DACS), which collect royalties on behalf of artists, have taken Mr Braka and his company to the High Court to force them to reveal details of their sales since 2006.

In documents submitted to a preliminary hearing on Thursday, a judge was told that the claimants had made requests for information on payable royalties from Mr Braka and Ivor Braka Ltd every quarter since 2006-07 and had never received a response

The lawyers argued that they were making “a straightforward claim for information.”

Mr Braka’s legal team responded in a written argument that the requests “were advanced on an incorrect basis” because it was necessary “to identify a relevant sale… it is not enough to simply ask for information as to any potentially relevant sales”.


Not disclosed information

The claimants argue that this is not possible to do, given that Mr Braka and his company have not disclosed information on any of their sales.

Mr Braka’s team argued: “The claims against Mr Braka were misconceived, speculative, inconsistent with the claimants’ own contemporaneous documents, and should never have been brought.”

Representatives of  ACS and DACS told The Daily Telegraph that the amount of royalties involved was likely to be very small but that it could make an enormous difference to artists who rarely made much money.

Gilane Tawadros, chief executive of DACS, said: “While the majority of the art market complies with the Artist’s Resale Right Regulations, a few do not, and in doing so gain an unfair advantage against their fellow art dealers and deny artists and creatives income that is desperately needed, especially after the Covid-19 pandemic.”

Ivor Brakar Ltd was approached for comment. A further hearing is scheduled to take place in the summer.




                  Mr Braka is well known in the art world, having once sold a Francis Bacon painting for $50 million (£38 million)






‘Francis Bacon: The First Pope’







The man on the dais screams his invective. The microphone in front of him shakes with the volume of his speech. His mouth is wide, his teeth are bared, the anger and viciousness of his rhetoric is almost real, physical, like you can feel it in your chest.

This is Francis Bacon’s first pope painting. He painted it in 1946, based on a Velázquez image of Pope Innocent X. It would lead to more pope paintings, images full of aggression and tyrannical hate, but this first one hasn’t been seen in public since it was sold in 1967.

And now it’s here, presented all on its own, with no other works around it, in a pitch black room. It’s like entering a tiny private chapel. The air conditioner hums, but otherwise it’s silent. You are alone with this one single, beautiful, awful, violent painting.

The pope in his shirt and tie is part religious leader, part tyrannical despot. He stands in front of a neo-classical Nazi colonnade, spewing his bile at a crowd of violet cyclamen flowers. It’s a stunning, powerful work.

If the giant Royal Academy exhibition of Bacon’s work that’s on show now is an overwhelming celebration of his art, this is a tiny, private, personal meditation. It’s a chance to be one on one with his painting, eyeball to eyeball with his first pope, and it’s amazing.




                       Installation view, Francis Bacon, © The Estate of Francis Bacon.





Heart of Darkness: A Look at Francis Bacon’s

Visceral London Exhibition







Man and Beast. The name of an exhibition of the 20th century Irish-born figurative painter, Francis Bacon is indicative of his carnal impression of life and death and subsequent expression of what he saw as risqué and primal.

His paintings are often vicious, confronting depictions of human forms with animal characteristics, deformed and dramatised to fit his bleak world view which depicted the carnage and violence of the military conflicts of his time with raw, unsettling imagery.

Bacon existed in the art world as a boundary-pusher, his depictions of crucifixions, portraits of popes, self-portraits, and portraits of close friends all presented the viewer with a reaction-inducing take on the prevailing ideological direction at the time, pacing them far outside their comfort zone.

The work Head, 1947-48, from his first exhibition at Erica Brausen’s Hanover Gallery, London, in 1949 is indicative of compositional elements he would go on to use for many years such as the addition of white lines in a geometric pattern reminiscent of a room or cage.

Bacon seems to ask where the distinction is between the human-like figure in the painting and the grisly fangs as it seems to morph and transform in muted, dusty grey into some kind of deformed mouth, he seems to want us to realise our capacity for transformation, but leaves the viewer with an undesirable image of biological ugliness rather than the current, prevailing, nature-positive viewpoint.

It is not his only work that uses such evocative imagery and combines it with compelling composition.

The Exhibition will feature a trio of Bullfighting pieces that have never been on display before, many posit this triptych was an unfinished project and there is conjecture that a fourth, central painting was abandoned and destroyed as happened to many of his work that he was dissatisfied with.

Bacon said of bullfighting, ”[It] is like boxing – a marvellous aperitif to sex.’

He was decades ahead of his time, discussing the complex relationships between spectacle, terror and power, and the capacity of the individual to become lost in herd mentality in the rare bullfighting triptych with his depiction of the crowd including a Nazi-like Eagle.

This exhibition is being shown at the Royal Academy London until the 17th of April.

















“Postwar Modern” collects not only some of the most impactful artwork produced following the Second World War, but draws crucial focus to the impact that trauma can have on the subjectivity of the artist. Now showing at the Barbican until 26th June 2022, the exhibition delicately balances the distressing imagery and impact of world-changing events with a beguiling intellectual narrative.

The lights are low in the gallery, hauntingly facing the walls and the art on them. Through the dense atmosphere, the exhibition’s path climbs across two floors to mimic a dialectical spiral. In a thrilling combination of emotional resonance and ideational creativity, what becomes most impressive about this show is the active curatorial philosophy behind its execution. It builds firmly upon itself, enacted as though performing a drama, and leading visitors towards a concrete vision of the works within. Once inside, the visitor is guided from the colossal and intrusive intercession of John Latham’s ‘Full Stop’ (1961) – a Lacanian traumatic interruption if ever there was one – through the dissemination of the subject into their art by Alan Davies’s ‘Creation of Eve’ (1956), and finally into confronting the thing in itself – the war, the violence, and the uneasy future that awaits. Perfect for our moment, as the UK and so many of its citizens begin to define our times as similarly ‘post-covid’, the mechanics of this story play out with an eerie resonance.

These are neatly encapsulated by another work of Latham’s, ‘Man Caught Up with a Yellow Object’ (1954), where the artist’s obsession with spray painting finds theoretical impact through the painting’s form – a chaotic spread of atomised particles and pigment and a looming figure. The piece’s plaque reads of how Latham interpreted the Christian god’s act of creation – standing in for the acts of the artist – to represent not concrete objects but moments in time. A poignant Kantian portrait, this is tantamount to the announcement of the show’s intentions: that the art which follows is tied not to the artist as a unique object, but an immediate reflection of their subjectivity at one time, and in the wake of violence. Looping around the many works inside, the visitor finds the passing of time painstakingly apparent between canvases and sculpture, as they dizzyingly traverse all manners of expression. The artworks unfold from the dense packaging of earthy colours and bombastic composition in earlier images, to a settling of tones in Lucien Freud’s impressions of his surroundings in ‘Hotel Bedroom’ (1954), and finally Richard Hamilton’s pop-art visions of the future, in his poster for the ‘This is Tomorrow’ show at Whitechapel Gallery (1956). In short, it is a procession through trauma, and eventually into moving past it.

The upper floors follow much the same trajectory, though more compactly exploring divergent sets of themes as opposed to one overwhelming post-war narrative; as if unburdened with the direct influence of tragedy, the artists included could act purely of their own accord. The dark surrealism of Francis Bacon in works like ‘Man in Blue II’ (1954) may be tonally consistent with the bloody battles of the recent past, but their thematic content represents an individualistic move away from historical engagement. Similarly, the constructionist departure of abstract sculpture enters its own reality, apart from history in the ‘concrete’ themed room. Here lies the sharp absence of grimy interpretations of war, and in their place mathematical and architectural forms designed quite without human beings in mind, as if the past subjectivity had itself been experimentally abandoned, or left behind in the procession of the arts.

After leaving behind a likewise traumatic period of history, the Covid-19 pandemic of our times, the Barbican’s latest creation is most vitally a suggestion towards how we may process this interruption in our lives. By looking to the past, it vocalises through the drama of its curation how we may move beyond the mire of reflective work, beyond being trapped by the memories of violence. Once again, it becomes apparent that towards art is the direction we must take. To express, and process these events in therapeutic catharsis, and if not to create ourselves then to languish and engage with the expression of others; that by art we must always be drawn to take the next step.

Postwar Modern New Art in Britain 1945-1965— 26th Jun 2022  Barbican Art Gallery




                                     Postwar Modern: New Art in Britain 1945 – 1965 Installation view Barbican Art Gallery – 26 June 2022 © Tim Whitby






Screaming pope painting by Francis Bacon goes on display







LONDON, March 15 – A dark Francis Bacon painting of a screaming pope, said to be the earliest in his series of papal depictions, went on display in London on Tuesday, the first time the artwork has been exhibited publicly.

The Dublin-born artist created the canvas, known as “Landscape with Pope/Dictator,” in 1946 while living in Monaco.

It depicts a blurred, open-mouthed figure in a biretta, a traditional cap worn by Catholic clergy and wearing a politician’s usual attire of a shirt and tie. A microphone stands in front of him and beneath are flowers.

Art gallery Gagosian, which is showing the work in its London Davies Street gallery, said it was “Bacon’s first treatment of the papal image.”

“Here you’ve got this sort of hybrid figure of a kind of papal clerical figure but at the same time, dressed in an ordinary secular suit and tie,” Richard Calvocoressi, director and curator at the Gagosian gallery, said.

“So fusing these two figures of authority…on the one hand the pope, on the other hand, the dictator, the authoritarian figure is something that he pursued and carried on…for another 20 years, coming back to this idea.”

The painting was recently discovered when British art historian and curator Martin Harrison compiled a catalog of Bacon’s work. The listing was published in 2016.

“It’s never been in an exhibition. It went into a private collection in Italy in 1967 and really, this is its first public appearance since then,” Calvocoressi said.

The painting is on show until April 23.




        Dublin-born artist created “Landscape with Pope/Dictator” in 1946





Oil be back: is this long-lost, terrifying painting Bacon’s very first pope?




The Gagosian Gallery certainly thinks so, and it’s well worth heading to Mayfair to see it (if you dare...)






Against a dark, sinister background, a man sits before a microphone, ranting into the night. Who is this screaming, eyeless spectre, with teeth as sharp as a vampire’s? Answer: a figure by Francis Bacon – and, according to the Gagosian Gallery, which is about to show the picture in which he appears, his “first pope”.

Likely abandoned by Bacon in the early Fifties, when he moved out of a studio in South Kensington, the painting was lost for decades, hidden away, since 1967, in an obscure private collection. Now, following its rediscovery in 2016, it’s being exhibited for the first time – not far from the Royal Academy, where three of the artist’s pope paintings (he made more than 40, over 20 years) are on display in Francis Bacon: Man and Beast, including Head VI (1949), usually considered the series’s prototype.

Anyone interested in modern art will want to see such a potentially important early Bacon for themselves. So, at the first opportunity, I pedalled to Gagosian in Mayfair, where the gilt-framed painting has been hung dramatically (and spookily), surrounded by Stygian drapes, so that it seems to float, by itself, in an otherwise empty, pitch-black space. If this is what the threshold to the underworld looks like, I won’t be surprised – and, judging by the distorted, hysterical expression of the picture’s purple-clad martinet, we’re all going straight to hell.

It was the art historian Martin Harrison who tracked down the painting, which the artist never titled, to a warehouse in northern Italy, while compiling Bacon’s catalogue raisonné. Could it be one of three lost “sketches” of Velázquez’s 17th-century portrait of Pope Innocent X, which Bacon mentions in a pair of letters written on the same day in 1946? “It is thrilling to paint from a picture which really excites you,” he told his friend, the artist Graham Sutherland – although he knew Velázquez’s composition only in reproduction, and never visited the original in Rome.

One of the studies, he added, was almost finished, and Gagosian, who insist it isn’t available, believe this is the “new” work. In which case, it must have been painted in Monaco, where Bacon, feeling flush following the sale of Painting (1946), which today hangs in the Museum of Modern Art in New York and features another menacing, eyeless bully, was rattling around the roulette tables, with his lover, Eric Hall, and beloved former nanny, Jessie Lightfoot, in tow.

If correct, the painting, which measures 55 x 43 inches, was executed (on the canvas’s rougher, unprimed side) very early in Bacon’s career, which, traditionally, is said to start with Tate’s 1944 triptych, Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion. Astonishingly, many of the motifs that we associate with his artistic maturity are already present: a solitary male figure; a bestial, chimp-like scream; the claustrophobic sense of being trapped within box-like structures. In the foreground, pink flowers (cyclamens?) crackle and sputter like fireworks. Their pronged, finger-like petals echo the figure’s blurred, gesticulating hands.

In an elegant essay, art historian Richard Calvocoressi suggests that they may, too, stand in for his audience: the “waving or saluting” hands of a crowd listening to a demagogue. Bacon kept press photos of speechifying dictators, and the painting’s neoclassical colonnade recalls buildings by the Nazi architect Albert Speer. Hence, Harrison’s tentative title: “Landscape with Pope / Dictator”. Perhaps those petals represent toxic propaganda tumbling, like spittle, from the figure’s fanged, fanatical mouth.

In fact, isn’t this tyrannical phantom more dictator than pope? He wears a collar and tie, not vestments. (Am I seeing things, or are the notches of a lapel visible in the thin paint describing his outer garment?) True, his throne is a little like that in Velázquez’s portrait, while, Calvocoressi argues, the predominant blue-violet tonality “anticipates the later series of popes from 1951 and 1953”. His elongated headgear may be a prelate’s “biretta”.

But, at its base, encircling his temples, there’s the ghostly line of a brim, which suggests a different sort of hat altogether. If he is a pope, he’s a shadowy one – the first stirrings of an idea. Still, whoever he is, he’s fascinating, as well as scary, and I suggest you seek this intriguing, transitional picture out.

From March 15 until April 23




                            Francis Bacon’s Landscape with Pope/Dictator c. 1946





ArtBeat: Féile an Earraigh, Guernica and Ukraine, Francis Bacon,

Big Telly Theatre Company and President Zelensky




Notes and musings from the arts scene as it continues to emerge from lockdown, by Jane Hardy




BY JANE HARDY    |    BOOKS    |    ARTS    |    THE IRISH NEWS    |    SATURDAY, 12 MARCH, 2022


IT is Féile an Earraigh time and we’re midway through its tempting programme, with cultural treats such as today’s Tin Whistle Challenge at 11.30am at the Cultúrlann Mcadam Ó Fiaich, Falls Road.

Sometimes politics and art make beautiful music. Think of the savage force of Guernica Picasso’s take on the 1937 Nazi bombing of the Basque town which I remember seeing in London with my mother a long time ago.

Of course, given the situation since Russia’s attack on Ukraine, there has been another form of politics invading the arts. That’s the outright ban, the straight embargo of cultural events produced by the enemy, or at least our ally’s enemy.

So, for example, the British tour of the Russian State Ballet of Siberia has been abruptly cancelled, artists (who may not approve of the events taking place back home) have had to pack their bags. And the Bolshoi won’t be coming to London’s Royal Opera House.

These tough cultural sanctions can hurt the innocent as well as the big bad guys. Shostakovich, when challenged during an interview in America, refused to produce outright condemnation of Stalin, saying the journalists risked nothing, he risked everything.

I agree that the virtue signalling could be a little over the top. Cleverly, Northern Ireland has found, post-Troubles, a different artistic solution.

Here we practise a kind of cultural osmosis, with both sides of Ulster’s bloody debate encouraged to tell their stories, with events like Féile an Phobail and the Eastside Arts Festival playing their part.

However, if you want a sense of the raw cruelty of the human condition you could do worse than go see the Irish-born but London-based artist Francis Bacon’s work in the Ulster Museum. His Head II (1949), for example, is both animal and sinister.

The painter produced the most magnificently disturbing portraits of the 20th century, including his Screaming Pope series.

Now Bacon will reach a new audience. Via, of all things, a colourful graphic (both senses) novel, Francis Bacon: the Story of his Life, by Cristina Portolano (Prestel).

To find out more, you can visit Bacon’s famously messy studio, the room as smeared as his palette, in the Dublin City Gallery aka the Hugh Lane.

It was lovingly relocated, with 100 slashed canvases and 2000 items of artist’s kit, from London in 1998.

Apparently Ukrainian geography might lend itself to guerrilla warfare (hopefully not) but what about Portrush?

The Big Telly Theatre Company is staging one of its innovative dramatic outings from March 17-19 where you move around town like a spy it’s immersive, so we all join in, mobiles at the ready, to undertake a mystery assignation.

Finally, this week we learnt political oratory, and courage, are not dead.

President Zelensky’s speech to the Houses of Parliament referenced Shakespeare’s most famous soliloquy, Hamlet’s To be, or not to be, had Churchillian rhythms and moral force. British politicians, take note.




          Francis Bacon: the Story of his Life is a graphic novel about the Dublin-born artist, who died in 1992.







How Larry Gagosian courted Russian oligarchs


to build art gallery empire







New York’s most successful art tycoon has built a billion-dollar empire by being the dealer of choice for Russia’s biggest oligarchs.

One art world source dubbed Gagosian “the official art dealer to the Russian oligarchy,” adding that “the Bond villains he consorts with are dangerous, repulsive and devalue art by their very presence.”

Larry Gagosian, 76, has worked with billionaire and Putin confidant Roman Abramovich, whose assets were frozen by the British government Thursday over Russia’s ongoing invasion of Ukraine, and Mikhail Fridman, the sanctioned co-founder of Alfa Bank.

He is also said to have cultivated relationships with Russia’s most important museum, run by a close associate of President Vladimir Putin. With Ukrainian artists and others calling for more sanctions in the cultural sector, such relationships may soon be under scrutiny, analysts say. The Gagosian Gallery in New York did not return The Post’s calls and an email seeking comment this week.

Gagosian, who owns several galleries around the world, has long held close ties to Abramovich, the owner of the UK’s Chelsea football club, helping him and ex-wife Dasha Zhukova build up a massive art collection. It includes pieces by artists Francis Bacon and Damien Hirst, whose work has been represented by Gagosian’s galleries.

“In my years working for the Gagosian gallery, I watched Larry’s interest move from key American collectors to mother Russia,” said a former gallery employee who did not want to be identified.

In his pursuit of wealthy Russian clients, Gagosian hosted exhibitions in Moscow, beginning in 2007, featuring artists Hirst, Willem de Kooning and Jeff Koons, among others. That inaugural show was partly funded by Russia’s Alfa Bank, Russia’s largest private financial institution, which was sanctioned by the US Department of the Treasury last month.

One of the bank’s founders, Fridman — who, as of 2017, was Russia’s seventh-richest citizen — was a client of the Gagosian Gallery, and sanctioned by the European Union in February. He resigned from the bank’s board earlier this month, according to reports.

Fridman bought an Andy Warhol painting of Marilyn Monroe through the gallery for more than $38 million in 2013. He then flipped the 1962 acrylic and silk-screen “Four Marilyns” two years later for $44 million. At the beginning of his business relationship with Gagosian, Fridman had bought “Midas,” a monochrome painting of butterflies in a gilded cage, by Hirst from the Gagosian Gallery.

“Gagosian is no different from all the other art dealers who were circling around the money trough of the oligarchs,” said an art world source who did not want to be identified. “Everybody, including Christie’s and Sotheby’s were shamelessly courting the oligarchs.”

But Gagosian, whose net worth is estimated at $600 million, may have been better than most at courting these billionaire clients. His gallery is the most successful modern dealership in the world, with outposts in Geneva, Los Angeles and even a hangar at a Paris airport. The nearly 18,000-square-foot space near a runway at Le Bourget has featured exhibitions of Gagosian artists Richard Serra and Anselm Kiefer, among others.

“Larry occupies a unique position that hasn’t been reached by any dealer in the history of art and will never be reached after him,” said fellow contemporary art dealer Philippe Segalot in a 2018 interview with Allinet, an online art journal. “He is the greatest on the market. He is a true military machine.”

To that end, Gagosian has maintained a close connection with the State Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg, Russia, and its longtime director Mikhail Piotrovsky, who is so close to Putin that he boasted about helping the Russian president draft constitutional amendments in 2020. Piotrovsky’s wife Irina worked with Putin for six years while he was deputy mayor of St. Petersburg in the early 1990s.

“It’s not that I’m Putin’s person since the early ’90s,” said Piotrovsy in an interview with The Art Newspaper last year. “Putin has been my person from the early ’90s. He is from Petersburg. He had approximately the same job that I did. We both worked for the reputation of Petersburg. So indeed he is closer to me than many others.”

In partnership with Piotrovsky, Gagosian has staged several art exhibitions of his clients’ work at the Hermitage in the past, and wined and dined Piotrovsky on his numerous trips to the US. “My relations with Dr. Piotrovsky are excellent,” said Gagosian, the son of Armenian emigrés in a 2018 interview “After all, he is half-Armenian. For me, to be an Armenian means to have a kinship with Russia.”

Gagosian and the New York-based Hermitage Museum Foundation, a non-profit that raises money for restoration projects and artistic donations to the Russian museum, hosted Piotrovsky on visits to the US, including “whirlwind” tours of Palm Beach and Washington DC in 2009, according to the group’s federal tax filings.

During the Palm Beach trip, Piotrovsky was treated to a farewell brunch at Mar-a-Lago, hosted by Donald Trump. In Washington, he was given a private tour of the Library of Congress and awarded the Woodrow Wilson Award for Public Service. He even laid a wreath at Mount Vernon where George Washington is buried, according to tax filings.

In 2017, “Larry Gagosian graciously hosted an intimate dinner for Professor Piotrovsky and several art collectors in his home,” according to the Hermitage Museum Foundation’s website.

Abramovich, who made international headlines when he paid $86.3 million for Francis Bacon’s “Triptych” and another $33.6 million for Lucian Freud’s “Benefits Supervisor Sleeping” in 2008, was added to the British sanctions list of “pro-Kremlin” oligarchs with ties to the UK.





                               Gagosian’s galleries have included pieces by artists Francis Bacon (above) and Damien Hirst.






This is art for the penthouses of oligarchs’


– Damien Hirst: Natural History




The artist’s progress from raw young punk to pretentious money-lover


is on show in this collection of formaldehyde works. Even the shark is


getting very shrunken around the mouth






Thirty years ago, when I walked into the Saatchi gallery in London, I saw something wildly liberating and compulsive: a huge tiger shark that seemed to swim forward through clear blue liquid, with just a sheet of glass between you and its jaws. But the shark you see on entering Damien Hirst’s survey of his formaldehyde creations is not the same work: it’s Jaws 2, or even Jaws 3, the one where the mother shark attacks an aquarium. It is called Death Denied and was made in 2008, a fresher version of the notoriously decaying original, titled The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living. But even 14 years is a long time for a dead shark, and this one’s getting very shrunken around the mouth.

Any fear of those teeth – and the inevitable advance of death they symbolise – rapidly dissipates as you take in the progress of Hirst from raw young punk to pretentious money-lover. It is still possible to put on a strong exhibition of his early work, with its genuine sense of grabbing something from this short life, but what we see here instead is how his original desire to shock has become empty and artificial. Somewhere along the line he stopped feeling it.

Behind the shark are three tall tanks with a dissected upright sheep in each, like the three crosses in a medieval altarpiece. Of course, he’s emulating Francis Bacon, who took the gothic art form of the triptych (or three-part altarpiece) and filled it with painted meat, purple and grey emanations of godless flesh. Does Hirst want to be Bacon? He isn’t.

The Pursuit of Oblivion is a towering tank, inside which an umbrella floats over an empty overcoat on a chair, among sides of beef and butchery tools hanging in still, clear fluid. It is a homage to Bacon’s crushingly real nightmares, especially his 1946 canvas, Painting. The cleavers and knives remind you of Bacon’s admiration for butchers’ shops. As the eloquent Soho existentialist once said between drinks: “Ham, pigs, tongues, sides, of beef seen in the butcher’s window, all that death, I find it very beautiful.”

Bacon waxed lyrical about meat but what he put on canvas was paint. His smears of pink and grey, his sickening orange backgrounds and tubular furniture, are acts of imagination. Hirst’s vitrine looks like the artistic effort of someone with no imagination. Why can’t you create a Bacon masterpiece with real meat and a real umbrella? Because it becomes banal. It’s like pretending that by exhibiting a pig sliced in two to reveal its guts you’ve made a powerful modern version of Leonardo da Vinci’s anatomical drawings. Oh and yes, Hirst does try that one here, too.

The more art history his vitrines quote, the sillier they seem. Chopping off a cow’s head to create The Beheading of John the Baptist (2006) does seem a bloody waste. It just does not achieve the same pathos and horror as Caravaggio could get by painting a man with his head half removed in a prison yard and the executioner reaching with his knife to sever the last flap of skin.

That’s because Caravaggio and Bacon were painting human suffering. Many will be offended by the fact that every work in this show is made with dead animals. But, paradoxically, you would have to believe every animal death equal to the death of a human to be moved in the right way by The Beheading of John the Baptist. As someone who still eats meat, it would be hypocritical for me to weep. So the only people who can take Hirst seriously are more likely to be outside the gallery protesting.

To be fair, he’s closer to veganism than you might think. His early 1997 piece Shut Up and Eat Your Fucking Dinner is a grotesque recreation of a butcher’s window. It looks like a memory of being sickened by windows full of dead animals when he was a little boy in Leeds. But this ghost of sensitivity fades in the cold, industrial output of fake masterpieces that surround it. This is art for the penthouses of oligarchs who look out of their windows and ask who really cares about all those pieces of meat walking about down there.

Damien Hirst: Natural History is Gagosian Britannia Street, London




                                                 The Beheading of John the Baptist, 2006, in Damien Hirst: Natural History.






Las bestias de Francis Bacon llenan la Royal Academy de Londres




Hasta el 17 de abril podremos ver algunas de las mejores y más inquietantes obras del “generoso y viperino” artista.






El viaje a lo animal es breve. Así lo expresó el pintor Francis Bacon en sus grandes lienzos. Antes, otros, desde la Antigüedad, dieron forma al animal que guarda el corazón humano. Los egipcios representaron a sus dioses en cuerpos con cabeza de ibis, o de cocodrilo, o de halcón, o de leona.

Para los griegos lo que no era humano era ya monstruoso, como el Minotauro, encerrado en su laberinto, ante quien hoy no podemos evitar un brote de ternura. El Medievo siguió la tradición que identificaba al animal con el vicio, el instinto bajo, el pecado. Así el Bosco llenó sus obras de seres de los que surgen bestias extrañas. Habitan espacios infernales, condenados a penar por su naturaleza.




En la exposición Hombre y bestia comprobamos que, para Francis Bacon, no había distancia entre ambos. El artista creció en la visión cruda de Rembrandt y Goya, y sobre ella recreó las formas orgánicas de los surrealistas y de Picasso. Permaneció en el interior. Sus obras son inquietantes porque miran dentro y muestran lo que no queremos ver.

Su padre, militar y criador de caballos, le expulsó de casa a los 16 años tras descubrir su homosexualidad y su afición por el travestismo. Le envió a Berlín con un amigo de la familia con el objetivo de que se convirtiese en un hombre. Francis le sedujo y disfrutó de la libertad que ofrecía la ciudad en los años 20. Viajó a menudo a París y finalmente se instaló en Londres, donde se dedicó a la decoración.

En su afición por el juego, llegó a instalar una ruleta ilegal en su sótano. Dedicaba las noches a saltar de bar en bar en el Soho. Desde los años 40 frecuentó junto a Lucien Freud el Colony Room, propiedad de su amiga Muriel Blecher, que le pagaba por llevar clientes. Ocupaba siempre el mismo asiento, en una de las esquinas. Según sus conocidos era generoso y viperino, de ingenio afilado.




Afirmó que tardó en implicarse en la pintura porque no sentía interés por representar lo que le rodeaba. Su viaje le dirigió hacia el interior. Los excesos alcohólicos y su inclinación por las relaciones tortuosas, marcadas por el masoquismo, conformaron un universo cerrado en el que habitan animales y personajes que son carne más que piel.

Partía de recortes que colgaba en su estudio. Las primeras investigaciones sobre el movimiento en fotografía, imágenes de un viaje a Sudáfrica, una escena de una película de vanguardia en la que una mujer grita o la máscara mortuoria del poeta William Blake, emergen una y otra vez en sus obras.

Tras su acuerdo con la galería Marlborough, que pagaba sus piezas en función de su tamaño, se multiplican los trípticos y su extensión se hace monumental.




Su obra más célebre, una versión del retrato del papa Inocencio X de Velázquez, toma un personaje cuyo poder roza lo divino, le encierra en una jaula y le priva de su humanidad con un grito, que, a diferencia del de Munch, es solo una boca. En la boca acaba el hombre y comienza el animal, afirmaba Bacon.

El mono representaba para el artista la fusión de ambas naturalezas. Si en el hombre buscaba la animalidad, trasladaba al animal su soledad. En la exposición de la Royal Academy, el personaje más amable es un babuino.

En los sesenta conoció en un pub a George Dyer. Era joven, del barrio popular del East End y contaba con un historial intermitente de hurtos. Bacon, que había abrazado una sumisión consciente en sus relaciones, se transformó en protector de Dyer, a quien percibía como un ser vulnerable.

Durante una década Dyer ocupó el lugar central en sus series. Bacon realizó numerosos estudios de su rostro, en los que aparece representado con cercanía y cierta ternura. Si el retrato era el género en el que buscaba explorar los límites entre lo humano y lo inhumano, Dyer aparece privado de los rasgos voraces que mostraban los personajes de su etapa inicial.

La relación se degradó hacia finales de los 60, cuando Bacon se consagró como exponente de la alta cultura. Reclamado en los círculos artísticos a pesar de sus particularidades, Dyer se vio relegado y se sumió en un alcoholismo cargado de violencia. En 1971, en París, la noche que precedió a la inauguración de una retrospectiva de Bacon en el Grand Palais, se suicidó con una combinación de alcohol y barbitúricos.




El artista resurgió de una época que él mismo definió de “demonios, desastre y pérdida” cuando conoció al español José Capello en una fiesta en Londres, a quien superaba en más de 40 años. La relación se consolidó en viajes por Italia y España. Acudía a menudo a Madrid, donde tuvo la oportunidad de revisitar dos de sus referentes: Velázquez y Goya, en el Museo del Prado. Pintó su última obra en 1991.

Desde entonces, la posición de Francis Bacon como uno de los grandes maestros del siglo XX no ha cesado de crecer. En 2013, 3 estudios de Lucian Freud alcanzó en Christie’s Nueva York los 142,4 millones de dólares, el mayor precio en subasta hasta entonces, solo superado en 2017 por el Salvator Mundi de Leonardo.





                             Francis Bacon, Triptych August 1972, 1972. ‘Francis Bacon: Man and Beast’, Royal Academy of Arts, Londres (29 enero – 17 abril 2022).






Never before exhibited, Francis Bacon’s first screaming Pope

goes on show at London’s Gagosian gallery




Sinister besuited figure, painted in Monaco in 1946, was only recently rediscovered






Francis Bacon’s first image of a screaming Pope—which has never been exhibited publicly—is due to go on show next week at Gagosian gallery in London. The papal image, known as Landscape with Pope/Dictator, will be displayed at Davies Street gallery in Mayfair from 15 March to 23 April.

The work, made in Monaco in 1946, depicts a figure in a traditional Catholic clergy cap known as a biretta and a shirt and tie, combining religious elements and more sinister aspects, drawing on the artist’s fascination with Fascist dictators.

On 19 October 1946, Bacon wrote to Duncan MacDonald, a director of the Lefevre Gallery in London: “I am working on three studies of Velázquez’s portrait of Innocent II [sic]. I have almost finished one. I find them exciting to do.” Bacon was fascinated by Velázquez, the leading 17th-century artist in the court of King Philip IV of Spain.

According to the Sunday Times, the work was discovered by Martin Harrison as he compiled Bacon’s catalogue raisonné in 2016. The painting was reportedly acquired from Bacon’s London studio in 1951 and was later held by galleries in Milan and Turin before being bought by an unnamed Italian collector. Gagosian gallery says that Landscape with Pope/Dictator is not for sale.

Gagosian’s director Richard Calvocoressi says in a statement: “It is particularly exciting that this important early Bacon has re-emerged now, while three of the artist’s reinterpretations of the Pope theme—from 1949, 1951, and 1965—are on display in London, in the Royal Academy’s current exhibition, Francis Bacon: Man and Beast. Bacon, a devout atheist, made more than 40 portraits of popes over a 20-year period.




                  Francis Bacon’s Landscape with Pope/Dictator (around 1946)








  The First Pope







Gagosian is pleased to announce the exhibition of Francis Bacon’s first treatment of the papal image—a subject that would preoccupy the artist on and off for at least two decades. Executed circa 1946, this highly important picture in Bacon’s oeuvre has never before been exhibited publicly. The canvas entered a private collection in 1967 and was only rediscovered during the compilation of the artist’s catalogue raisonné by Martin Harrison, which was published in 2016. The painting will be on view in Gagosian’s Davies Street gallery from March 15 to April 23, 2022.

Scholar, art historian, and Gagosian director Richard Calvocoressi commented, “It is particularly exciting that this important early Bacon has reemerged now, while three of the artist’s reinterpretations of the Pope theme—from 1949, 1951, and 1965—are on display in London, in the Royal Academy’s current exhibition, Francis Bacon: Man and Beast.

‘Landscape with Pope/Dictator’ (c. 1946) (the title is placed between quotation marks in the Bacon catalogue raisonné because the artist did not give it one) was painted in Monte Carlo, Monaco, where Bacon lived for much of the time from 1946 until 1950. Having survived the London Blitz and wartime austerity, he was susceptible to the Mediterranean climate, the good food, and the temptations of the casino. In Monte Carlo he completed only a handful of paintings, of which this is one. On October 19, 1946, he wrote to Duncan MacDonald, a director of the Lefevre Gallery in London: “I am working on three studies of Velasquez’s portrait of Innocent II [sic]. I have almost finished one. I find them exciting to do.”

A couple of months later, starved of the stimulating company of sympathetic fellow artists, Bacon wrote to his friend Graham Sutherland, hoping to persuade him and his wife Kathy to join him in Monte Carlo for the winter. “I don’t know how the copy of the Velasquez will turn out,” he added. “I have practically finished one I think. . . . it is thrilling to paint from a picture which really excites you.”

In 1946 Bacon would have known Velázquez’s full-length Portrait of Innocent X (Galleria Doria Pamphilj, Rome) only in black-and-white reproduction. From the following year he could have seen the half-length version at Apsley House, London, when a selection of the Duke of Wellington’s collection went on show, although the house itself did not open to the public until 1952. However, a number of Bacon’s radical reinterpretations of images of enthroned Popes in the 1950s were based not on Velázquez’s portraits of Innocent X but on photographs of a living Pope, Pius XII—a controversial pontiff owing to his alleged failure to publicly condemn Nazism and the Holocaust. In Bacon’s paintings he can be identified by, among other details, his metal frame spectacles.

Another source for the picture was Bacon’s fascination with press and propaganda photos of Fascist dictators and their henchmen. ‘Landscape with Pope/Dictator’ is one of a very small number of his paintings in which the attributes of a Catholic clergyman—for example, the traditional cap known as a biretta—are combined with the secular garb of the political leader, such as a suit or uniform, shirt, and tie. The microphone appears in other works of this period. Pius XII was sometimes photographed speaking in front of microphones, although entirely without the atmosphere of suggestibility, mass hysteria, and violence implied by the shouting or screaming mouth and strutting stance of the dictator.

The columns in the background of Bacon’s picture seem to have been based on a photograph of a neoclassical colonnade such as those found in public buildings by Albert Speer and other Nazi architects.

The fusion of human and animal in the Pope/Dictator’s blurred face and wide-open mouth with prominent teeth—a theme of the current Bacon exhibition at the Royal Academy, London—suggests that Bacon was already looking at photographs of monkeys and chimpanzees. Another arresting feature is the bank of delicately painted pink and green flowers, probably cyclamen, beneath the podium, which also evokes a crowd of waving or saluting hands. The predominant tonality of blue-violet anticipates the later series of Popes from 1951 and 1953.

Francis Bacon was born in 1909 in Dublin, and died in 1992 in Madrid. His work is held in prominent public collections worldwide. Recent exhibitions include Bacon en toutes lettres, Centre Pompidou, Paris (2019–20); Invisible Rooms, Tate Liverpool, England (2016, traveled to Staatsgalerie, Stuttgart, Germany); Francis Bacon and the Art of the Past, Hermitage, St. Petersburg, Russia (2014, traveled to Sainsbury Centre for Visual Arts, Norwich, England, under the title Francis Bacon and the Masters); Five Decades, Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sydney (2012); Tate Britain, London (2008, traveled to Museo del Prado, Madrid, and Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York); Portraits and Heads, Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art, Edinburgh, Scotland (2005, traveled to Hamburger Kunsthalle, Hamburg, Germany).

Francis Bacon: Man and Beast is on view at the Royal Academy, London, through April 17, 2022.

17–19 Davies Street London w1k 3de   Hours: Tuesday–Saturday 10–6   March 15–April 23, 2022




                     Francis Bacon, ‘Landscape with Pope/Dictator’, c. 1946
















 Gagosian to exhibit Francis Bacon’s first treatment of the papal image—a subject that would preoccupy the artist on and off for at least two decades. Executed circa 1946, this highly important picture in Bacon’s oeuvre has never before been exhibited publicly. The canvas entered a private collection in 1967 and was only rediscovered during the compilation of the artist’s catalogue raisonné by Martin Harrison, which was published in 2016.

Scholar, art historian and Gagosian director Richard Calvocoressi commented, “It is particularly exciting that this important early Bacon has re-emerged now, while three of the artist’s reinterpretations of the Pope theme—from 1949, 1951, and 1965—are on display in London, in the Royal Academy’s current exhibition, Francis Bacon: Man and Beast.”

‘Landscape with Pope/Dictator’ (c. 1946) (the title is placed between quotation marks in the Bacon catalogue raisonné because the artist did not give it one) was painted in Monte Carlo, Monaco, where Bacon lived for much of the time from 1946 until 1950. Having survived the London Blitz and wartime austerity, he was susceptible to the Mediterranean climate, the good food, and the temptations of the casino. In Monte Carlo he completed only a handful of paintings, of which this is one. On October 19th, 1946, he wrote to Duncan MacDonald, a director of the Lefevre Gallery in London: “I am working on three studies of Velasquez’s portrait of Innocent II [sic]. I have almost finished one. I find them exciting to do.”

A couple of months later, starved of the stimulating company of sympathetic fellow artists, Bacon wrote to his friend Graham Sutherland, hoping to persuade him and his wife Kathy to join him in Monte Carlo for the winter. “I don’t know how the copy of the Velasquez will turn out,” he added. “I have practically finished one I think. . . . it is thrilling to paint from a picture which really excites you.”

In 1946 Bacon would have known Velázquez’s full-length Portrait of Innocent X (Galleria Doria Pamphilj, Rome) only in black-and-white reproduction. From the following year he could have seen the half-length version at Apsley House, London, when a selection of the Duke of Wellington’s collection went on show, although the house itself did not open to the public until 1952. However, a number of Bacon’s radical reinterpretations of images of enthroned Popes in the 1950s were based not on Velázquez’s portraits of Innocent X but on photographs of a living Pope, Pius XII—a controversial pontiff owing to his alleged failure to publicly condemn Nazism and the Holocaust. In Bacon’s paintings he can be identified by, among other details, his metal frame spectacles.

Another source for the picture was Bacon’s fascination with press and propaganda photos of Fascist dictators and their henchmen. ‘Landscape with Pope/Dictator’ is one of a very small number of his paintings in which the attributes of a Catholic clergyman—for example, the traditional cap known as a biretta—are combined with the secular garb of the political leader, such as a suit or uniform, shirt, and tie. The microphone appears in other works of this period. Pius XII was sometimes photographed speaking in front of microphones, although entirely without the atmosphere of suggestibility, mass hysteria, and violence implied by the shouting or screaming mouth and strutting stance of the dictator.

The columns in the background of Bacon’s picture seem to have been based on a photograph of a neoclassical colonnade such as those found in public buildings by Albert Speer and other Nazi architects.

The fusion of human and animal in the Pope/Dictator’s blurred face and wide-open mouth with prominent teeth—a theme of the current Bacon exhibition at the Royal Academy, London—suggests that Bacon was already looking at photographs of monkeys and chimpanzees. Another arresting feature is the bank of delicately painted pink and green flowers, probably cyclamen, beneath the podium, which also evokes a crowd of waving or saluting hands. The predominant tonality of blue-violet anticipates the later series of Popes from 1951 and 1953.





                 Francis Bacon, ‘Landscape with Pope/Dictator’, c. 1946 © The Estate of Francis Bacon.






There’s Pannick on the streets of Londongrad!







The preening self-regard of the great legal minds in the House of Lords was on full display last week as several peers defended themselves from the charge of courting lootin’ and Putin-friendly oligarchs.

This undignified sight was part of the spat following the Government’s laggard response to sanctioning them, with Ministers desperately trying to blame amendments tabled five years ago by QCs Lord Pannick and Lord Judge to legislation covering sanctions and anti-money laundering.

These required the Government to provide ‘good reason’ to sanction targets – men such as Arkady Rotenberg, Pannick’s client and Putin crony who the lawyer defended from 2014 to 2015. Ministers say these amendments put too much emphasis on the rights of oligarchs.

In response, an incensed Pannick penned a letter to The Times saying oligarchs, like alleged murderers, are entitled to legal representation.

George Osborne was spotted last week chatting to Christie’s honorary chairman and minor royal David Linley ahead of the auction house’s spring sale, once a favourite place for oligarchs to deodorise their reputation and fortunes in London.

The former Chancellor, who oversaw a financial sector swilling with dodgy Russian money, had been admiring a Francis Bacon portrait of US President Woodrow Wilson, alongside a piece of paper stained with the blood of the assassinated Leon Trotsky.

Priced at £55 million, the Bacon was out of Osborne’s reach, but in other times would have attracted Roman Abramovich, who used a slice of his fortune to bring home a $86 million Bacon from Sotheby’s in 2008. But I hear he’s a little tied up right now.





Strange happenings back in the USSR




The brilliant story of a Francis Bacon exhibition in Moscow






Did it really happen? Did that place really exist? The further it shrinks in the rear-view mirror, the more wholly improbable the Soviet Union seems, some feverishly over-imagined sci-fi comedy-horror, a fairytale of indecipherable meaning written by a madman. 

James Birch’s rollicking book about late-80s Moscow, as he dreamed up the plainly ridiculous idea of holding a Francis Bacon exhibition in that peculiar place, pithily brings it all right back with bracing black comedy. As a fellow celebrant of those dog-end Soviet years, memories subsequently overlaid with gaudier images of the later Moscow came storming back.

It’s all here: how flying to Moscow always felt like going to prison, shadowed by the queasy fear that you’d never get out. Once there, everything was a hallucinatory dream of booze and hilarity, with flashes of random, desensitising horror.

These Russian scenes, with Birch’s disturbingly acute memory of the smells and other particularities of Old Moscow, would really be enough for a jolly memoir on their own, but there is more to the exhilarating ride of this short book.

The grotty London of the early 80s was a different universe from the gimcrack, security-goon-infested poncification we now inhabit, and the days of the 20-something Birch’s blithely happening gallery down by Stamford Bridge (at least some things never change: pissed-up Chelsea trogs would poke their heads round the door asking “What’s all this fucking shit, then?”) make the point that our own past is just as foreign as the Russian one, if marginally less frightful.

To all appearances rather hopeless, the Neo Naturists were 29-year-old Birch’s headliners in ’85. You might dimly remember Jennifer Binnie doing a Lady Godiva on a white horse down King’s Road to publicise her show. Jennifer lived in a Camden squat with Grayson Perry, the bolshie potter rather far from the celeb darling of the twenty-first century. 

The Neos’ gimmick was nudity and body painting and their bit of the artworld was pleasingly skint and carefree. One evening, Birch rolls up to a party on Campden Hill with the punk poet David Robilliard, runs into Russophile academico-cultural gadabout Bob Chenciner, who in an access of drunken genius tells Birch to take his artists to Moscow rather than New York, and that the mysterious Klokov will fix everything, and we’re off.

Birch tracks down this Klokov — who tuns out to be an urbane KGB cultural fixer — in Paris, and is beguiled by his accompanying siren Elena Khudiakova, correctly beautiful and unsmiling, a “high priestess of fashion” variously togged out for “a high-end roller disco” or “a Wham! video directed by Eisenstein”.

As usual with Russians, everyone has obscure motives and arcane uses for everyone else, only some of which ever become clear, so an intricate quadrille ensues as things unroll with the curious inevitability that so justifies Russian fatalism. Birch, his reading list full of Dostoyevsky as ordered by the exigent Elena, goes to Moscow, and shadowy machinations in the Union of Artists result in a Bacon rather than a Perry exhibition becoming the plan.

Luckily, Bacon (“Eggs”) is an old pal of the Birch family, and James knows his elusive gentle and charming side as well as the abrasive drunk. Back in London we plunge amid the world-class bores and freaks of ’80s Soho, its locus classicus the ghastly old Colony Room with its collection of pissed-up bitches. Birch shuttles about like a guileless Candide, reporting back with likeable candour on things he has no right to remember.

The rest is history. The exhibition happens, and half a million Muscovites queue round the block for Bacon’s visions of horror, some way from Party-time Soviet art with its camp factory workers and allied nonsenses, and they leave messages in the visitors’ book that remind you of the point of art. 

Just about everyone in the book is dead now, except Birch and Perry: Bacon back in 1992, then the rest — his lover John Edwards, Klokov, Chenciner, bit-part players like Misha Mikheyev from the Union of Artists, the raffish biker-arthound Johnny Stuart, Grey Gowrie — even the enchanting Elena, a rather tragic figure with “a broken brain” who drifts through the book like a sad muse.

Birch and his co-writer Michael Hodges have put together something strong and beautiful, a monument to basically grim times and places that retained at least some paradoxical, vestigial human traits, all the atmospheres of the freakish past that joltingly reminds us how fantastically random the world is, and what a blast the Soviet Union could be — just so long as you had that return ticket.





                                                                                       Francis Bacon at the Tate Gallery, 1985.






Francis Bacon: Man and Beast at the Royal Academy




Nicholas Cranfield sees Francis Bacon’s stark visions at the Academy






WHEN I hear the words “Cultural Centre”, I reach for my gun. A good friend invited me to explore the modern and contemporary art collection assembled by the Madeiran merchant José Berardo. It is still on loan to the Cultural Centre of Belém in Lisbon, despite the uncertainty surrounding the allegedly unpaid debts of the Portuguese billionaire.

The monstrous building (140,000 square metres; Vittorio Gregotti and Manuel Salgado) was completed in record time for the year in which Portugal presided over the Council of Europe (1992). It looks more like a bunker or, to be generous, the painted visions of John Martin (1789-1854) of ancient Babylon and Nineveh. It scars the Tagus riverside of the World Heritage Centre and the early-16th-century Jéronimos monastery across the street.

Solid blocks of towers, narrow ramp ways, and hidden squares contain conference halls, theatres, a reading room, a library, and the like. The Coleção Berardo alone fills some 9000 square metres in an art gallery.

It houses one work by Francis Bacon (1909-92) which I had come to see on the day that I was missing the press view of the current Royal Academy exhibition in London. Instead, I was able to spend time with the artist’s 1983 Oedipus and the Sphinx after Ingres.

If we think of Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres at all (1780-1867), we might think of a lush, post-revolutionary French neo-classical academic artist; but his use of pure colour and his distortion of forms found echoes later in Matisse and Picasso, as Bacon well knew.

In his interpretation, Bacon includes an injured athlete, awkwardly lifting his bloodied and bandaged foot, in place of the mythical king of Thebes, with a sculpted sphinx. In an outer darkness hangs one of the Furies, the Eumenides.

Bacon not only distorts, but one might also say perverts, the original work (1808). He offers a profound reflection on flesh, raw, bony, and, if we are honest, unattractive, quite at odds with the handsome, almost homoerotic, male beauty captured by Ingres. Sexuality has become animalistic for the Dublin-born painter.

From early on (to judge by his surviving work), Bacon was obsessed with the Furies. In the second room of the London exhibition, in the first of several illusionistic coups of the design, three paintings are brought together to form a triptych, the earliest being one of the Eumenides.

Placed centrally in this hang is Figure Study II (1945-46), loaned from the Bagshaw Museum in Batley to the National Galleries of Scotland, in which a half-naked figure yells out from beneath an incongruous open umbrella, face down in the rich leaves of a succulent. The man’s herringbone coat is draped over his rump much like a cast-off matador’s jacket. The tweed coat, this time with a trilby hat, reappears in a parallel work, Figure Study I (1945-46). Blue and deep pink blossoms complete the composition; are they the discarded bouquet of a disappointed lover, or flowers gathered at a graveside?

Alongside these two canvases, which can usually be viewed side by side in Edinburgh, the curators have chosen to add an earlier (1944) painting of a Fury (private collection), devouring a bunch of flowers. It is unlikely that Bacon intended these paintings as a conventional triptych, but they work well as a group. It would be a Fury that featured on his last commission: a wine label for Baroness de Rothschild in December 1991.

With rather more reticence, three paintings of a corrida (1969) surround the octagonal central gallery, two of them clearly intended as a pair with numbered doors for the spectators to crowd into the arena. Savage emotion has overtaken the crazed onlookers, who throng the terraces beneath what appears to be the Nazi flag of the Party Eagle. In contrast, the bull is ennobled with oncoming death, its head and horns outlined against the still unstained white capote de brega.

Few of Bacon’s sitters emerge as beautiful people. His is not a technique beloved by celluloid and by family albums. Isabel Rawsthorne and Bacon’s first long-term lover, Peter Lacy, have simian faces, and perhaps only in Triptych August 1972 (Tate) did a figure regain some dignity in human form; but, by then, his lover George Dyer, the subject of this and several of the “Black Triptychs”, had committed suicide.

Rather, Bacon’s own bestial nature and his incisive and all too deep human understanding allow him to paint in ways that are rarely encountered in Western art except in the figment of imagination, such as Ovid’s Metamorphoses, perhaps, the flaying of Marsyas, or some of the horrific scenes from the biblical accounts of genocide and mutilation: Cain and Abel, the rape of Tamar, the death of Jephthah’s daughter, and the sadistic beheading of John the Baptiser all came to mind.

Bacon, of course, was not a religious painter; that was never his intention. But the profound experience of walking through the Royal Academy galleries left me with a deeper understanding of human nature than many more romantic or romanticised versions of humanity can offer. It is perhaps fitting that this latest exhibition closes on Easter Day.

“Francis Bacon: Man and Beast” is at the Royal Academy, Burlington House, Piccadilly, London W1, until 17 April. Phone 020 7300 8090





                                Francis Bacon, Study for Bullfight No 1, 1969, oil on canvas, private collection





Artists condemn war, with European buyers ‘in pause mode’




As the international art world takes a stand on Ukraine, some players are unwilling to rock the boat






The international art world is taking an ethical stand against Russia’s devastating invasion of Ukraine, with artists in particular using their influence to condemn the atrocities.

But in the commercial art market, many are playing it down for now — there is a marked unwillingness to rock the boat during London’s auction season. While traders minimise the influence that Russian buyers now have in an increasingly global arena, the country’s oligarchs and other wealthy individuals, at home and abroad, are still significant art buyers, as well as the owners of art businesses.

William MacDougall, director of MacDougall’s auction house for Russian art, says that none of its clients have been placed under UK sanctions. Sotheby’s and Christie’s say their respective Moscow offices remain open and a Sotheby’s spokesperson says: “It is worth bearing in mind that the market has proved remarkably resilient over the years in the face of crises of many different types.” Christie’s has made a “significant donation” to the Red Cross, according to an internal email from chief executive Guillaume Cerutti.

Phillips auction house, wholly owned by Russian luxury goods business Mercury Retail Group, has read the room, no doubt under pressure from some consignors and would-be buyers. Chief executive Stephen Brooks said on Monday that “We at Phillips unequivocally condemn the invasion of Ukraine ... We call for an immediate cessation of all hostilities in the strongest possible terms.”

The owners of the Russian-held The Art Newspaper — for which I am an editor-at-large — say that “We are shaken and deeply concerned by the latest events unfolding in the Ukraine.” They underline that the newspaper “continues its editorially independent coverage.” 

Art advisers say that potential buyers, particularly those in Europe who feel very close to the action, are in pause mode. But there’s an uncomfortable sense that the art market’s convenience and opacity might be to its benefit. MacDougall says that “Wealthy Russians may prefer to keep their wealth in real transportable assets instead of in bank accounts.”

There are some brave moves — notably from those involved in the already beleaguered contemporary art market in Russia. Simon Rees, director of the Cosmoscow art fair since 2019, resigned from his role when Vladimir Putin’s forces invaded. He wrote on Facebook “We all tried to convince ourselves that full invasion would be averted. But Putin and his clique are old-style cold warriors who are deaf to diplomacy and insanely faithful to the idea of glorious war and empire. Sadly, a high proportion of the Russian population share those beliefs; and the educated elite have yet to mobilise against Putin and his values (which is a kind of tacit support).”

On Monday, organisers of the prestigious Venice Biennale, which hosts national pavilions to showcase contemporary art and opens on April 23, confirmed that Russia’s curator — Lithuanian Raimundas Masauskas — and his two Russian artists had pulled out. In a statement, organisers say that the Biennale “stands beside the motivations that have led to this decision”. The Ukrainian Pavilion responded on Twitter that while it welcomed the decision, “it was driven by the individual artists and the curator of the pavilion, not by its commissioners or the organisers of the [Venice Biennale].”

Russia’s private museums have boosted the international market in recent years. In 2011, the talk of Art Basel was that Dasha Zhukova, then married to the arch-oligarch and mega art buyer Roman Abramovich, had spent around $1mn on a neon installation by Jason Rhoades for their co-founded Garage Museum of Contemporary Art in Moscow.

On Saturday, however, the Garage announced that its exhibitions had stopped “until the human and political tragedy that is unfolding in Ukraine has ceased.” It adds: “We cannot support the illusion of normality when such events are taking place.”

The message from the V-A-C Foundation, which runs the recently opened and vast GES-2 House of Culture museum in Moscow, is more muted. The collector behind the Renzo Piano-designed museum is Leonid Mikhelson, a natural gas oligarch whose net worth is estimated by Forbes at $20.9bn. He is said to be close to Putin, who opened GES-2 in December.

A statement from the foundation says that it has decided “to suspend a number of programmes and activities ... in solidarity and respect to our visitors, employees, and the artists’ choices.” Icelandic artists Ragnar Kjartansson and Ingibjörg Sigurjónsdóttir were among those who pulled their works from GES-2. They wrote to the foundation that “We feel that we cannot sit by in silence. We must protest these atrocities in every way we possibly can.”

There wasn’t much demand for a weighty Francis Bacon triptych with a Russian motif and history, offered by Christie’s on Tuesday for between £35mn and £55mn.

“Triptych 1986-87” includes an image of the bloodied desk of the assassinated Marxist Leon Trotsky and was in the first exhibition of a well-known western artist in Soviet Russia in 1988. The painting, from the collection of the architect Norman Foster, sold to just one bid at £35mn, secured ahead of the sale through a guarantee (£38.5mn with fees).

Topping the marathon near six-hour auction on March 1 was a recently restituted painting by Franz Marc, “The Foxes (Die Füchse)” (1913), which sold for £37mn (£42.7mn with fees).

These were the top prices of sessions that generally defied the global unrest. Four works were withdrawn ahead of sale and 10 unsold, from a total of 110 lots. The latter included a 1926 painting by Marc Chagall, historically heavily bought by Russians, which had sold for $4.1mn in 2018 and was estimated at between £2.2mn and £3.2mn this week — however, other works by the artist sold. Another Russian favourite, Chaïm Soutine, had a painting of a hanging fowl from c1924 go unsold (est £800,000-£1.2m).

Sobering thoughts come from Jo Vickery, founder of the advisory firm Vickery Art and a specialist in contemporary Russian art. “Artists and art professionals in Russia are resoundingly against the Russian invasion, many are taking to the streets to demonstrate and are facing overnight detentions and fines,” she says. She adds: “For now, there are mostly questions of personal security — in Russia and Ukraine — and no one is interested in the market.”



                                           Francis Bacon’s ‘Triptych 1986-87’ sold for £38.5mn, at the lower end of estimates






‘Francis Bacon: Man and Beast’ laat je door elkaar geschud achter




Het is 10 jaar geleden sinds er in Londen een solotentoonstelling liep over publiekslieveling Francis Bacon.

De Royal Academy brengt nu Francis Bacon: Man and Beast, een expo die van de muren naar je loert, op

een onbewaakt moment op je afspringt en je door elkaar geschud achterlaat.






Eén zeer realistisch oor. Meer is er niet om het amorfe figuur in Head I uit 1948 te identificeren als, nu ja, m-mens. Het grauwe ding heeft een scheve vissenbek waar te veel en te scheve tanden in plakken. Heel veel meer en een bedrand kan je niet opmaken uit het eerste schilderij in Francis Bacons majestueuze Man and Beast-tentoonstelling. Je kan de vieze adem van het ding nog net niet ruiken.

“Als je erover nadenkt, zijn we allemaal maar dieren”, poneerde de Iers-Britse Francis Bacon (1909-1992) ooit in een gesprek met vriend en cocurator van de tentoonstelling Michael Peppiatt. “Alleen zijn sommige mensen er zich iets meer van bewust dan anderen. Die lijken veel dichter te staan bij hun dierlijke instincten. Ik heb wellicht op een andere manier kennis gemaakt met dieren dan de meesten onder ons. Als kind was ik steevast omringd door beesten en dat zal altijd een impact blijven hebben op mijn leven.”

Dat de Royal Academy Peppiatt als een van de curatoren aanstelde is op zijn minst een goede zaak te noemen. Bacons biograaf heeft topwerk afgeleverd. Met de hoge galerijen geschilderd in tinten donkergroen, dieprood en grauw zand, passend bij het palet van de kunstenaar, en de theatrale maar subtiele verlichting is het een onberispelijke setting voor Bacons schilderijen. De tentoonstelling gaat op zoek naar een fundamenteel, maar weinig onderzocht aspect in zijn oeuvre. Bacons feilloze fascinatie voor dieren, hoe het zijn benadering van het menselijk lichaam zowel vormde als vervormde.

Bacon had inderdaad geen gewone verhouding met dieren. Hij had een zware vorm van astma en was uiterst allergisch aan alles wat op poten liep. Maar eraan ontsnappen kon hij allerminst, happend naar adem bewoog hij zich door zijn kindertijd. Hij werd grootgebracht op een hoeve op het Ierse platteland waar zijn vader een autoritaire paardentrainer was. Bacon, die als kind al lak had aan in de pas lopen, werd het mikpunt van treiterij van Eddy Bacon. Die zag zich gefaald als vader als hij naar zijn subversieve zoon keek en probeerde hem ‘te redden’ door hem af en toe te laten afborstelen door een van zijn stalknechten. Bacon ontwikkelde een verstoorde relatie met de man. Toen hij op zijn zestiende worstelde met zijn eerste homoseksuele gevoelens stuurde vader Eddy hem met de ultramasculine Cecil Harcourt-Smith naar Berlijn. In essentie om hem een lesje te leren, maar dat mislukte toen Harcourt-Smith plots gevoelens kreeg voor jonge Francis. “Na Berlijn was ik compleet beschadigd”, vertelde Bacon er later lachend over.



De kunstenaar was op zijn minst een enigmatisch figuur te noemen. Op feestjes was hij steevast de joviale boemelaar die zijn gasten champagne trakteerde en al te graag aan gokpartijtjes deelnam. Ook was hij de man die zorg droeg voor verslaafde vrienden, hen te eten gaf en geld uitdeelde aan al wie het moeilijk had. Maar in de slaapkamer veranderde de kunstenaar in een op seksuele machtsspellen kickende masochist. Geen man van de brave huis-,tuin- en keukenbondage, maar één met lusten die gestoeld waren op ronduit gruwelijke fantasieën, voortgegroeid uit de trauma’s van zijn jeugd.

Die meedogenloosheid zie je vandaag als je naar zijn schilderijen kijkt. Hij gebruikte het als tool om zijn kunst te maken. Hoewel hij kon liefhebben, was hij onverbiddelijk voor zijn bedpartners, al zeker voor zijn vele gewelddadige ex-lieven die stuk voor stuk het bijltje legden, maar nog veel minder lief was hij voor zichzelf. Bacon haalde plezier uit ruwe seksspelletjes. Hij liet zich in de naam van de kunst het ene blauwe oog na het andere slaan. Met blinkende trots vertelde hij in interviews dat hij alweer een rijtje tanden kwijt was kwijtgespeeld na een nachtje stoeien.

Nadat hij zich in de jaren 30 op schilderkunst had toegelegd vestigde hij zich in South Kensington in West-Londen. Hij stichtte samen met Muriel Belcher The Colonoy Room in hartje Soho, een plek waar een mengelmoes van alcoholverslaafde lageklassers en geroemde Britse kunstenaars langskwam. Nog levende stamgasten zoals Maggie Hambling, artiest en vriend van de kunstenaar zijn formeel. “Bacon was één grote brok charisma. Als hij een kamer binnenwandelde, dan kon je er je ogen niet afhouden. Hij had iets betoverends.”

Bacon flirtte erop los. Getroebleerd door de mishandeling in zijn verleden ging hij steeds op zoek naar onmogelijke, bijna perverse contacten. Het zijn die beestachtige relaties die ook in heel wat schilderijen opduiken in de tentoonstelling. Zo had hij seks met de stalknechten die hem als kind hadden vernederd. Onder meer Man Kneeling in Grass uit 1952 in de tweede zaal is voortgekomen uit die onderonsjes. Een kwetsbaar, naakt figuur kruipt met voorovergebogen hoofd op handen en knieën door het gras. Het beeld heeft tegelijkertijd iets erotisch als meelijwekkends. Het figuur suggereert een onderdanigheid aan een onzichtbare sterke kracht van een geest die je misschien vaag in de achtergrond ziet.

De tentoonstelling dendert in een stevig tempo door. Een mensenhoofd met de kreet of enge glimlach van een aap, de dans tussen stierenvechter en stier, zijn lovers die op de meest absurde manier worden gecapteerd. Bacons monsters doen haasje-over in de rondgang. Bij momenten wil je rennen, nog vaker wil je wegkijken. Echt gezellig is de verzameling schilderijen in de Royal Academy niet.

Zo sloft er op een gegeven moment een uitgeputte hond naar ons toe, met hangende tong, oren naar beneden en het achterwerk gebogen. Er is uitputting te zien in elke plooi van zijn benige lichaam. Rond de hond is een varengroene cirkel getrokken, als laatste standplaats van de natuur in een prairie van leeg canvas. In de verte razen auto’s over een snelweg. Een blauwe zeestrook en een eenzame palmboom kunnen het desolate landschap niet doordringen. Dog uit 1952 vertelt ons halverwege al dat we het einde lijken bereikt te hebben.




Hoewel hoogtepunten elkaar in een stevig tempo opvolgen en we deze keer echt niet kunnen kiezen wat onze absolute voorkeur krijgt, blijven we het langst hangen bij Paralytic Child Walking on All Fours (from Muybridge) uit 1961. Bacon beschrijft hoe de beweging van dieren en die van mensen voortdurend interfereren in zijn werk. Hij verwijst in zijn schilderijen vaak naar fotografische beelden. De kunstenaar was gefascineerd door het vermogen om de beweging van het lichaam vast te leggen. Fotograaf Eadweard Muybridge’s Complete Human and Animal Locomotion had een grote impact op Bacons werk. Muybridge maakte stop-motions van elementaire bewegingen van mens en dier, denk aan een wandelende hond, een man die een discus werpt of twee mannen die aan het worstelen zijn. Het door polio verlamde jongetje schiet in al zijn natuurlijke kracht boven die vele beelden uit. De beestachtige trekken van het kind trok Bacons aandacht.

Een zaal verder staan zijn stierengevechten in een rondje opgesteld. De wilde penseelstreken doen denken aan iets wat Bacon ooit tegen criticus en biograaf David Sylvester zei: “Ik wil een heel geordend beeld, maar ik wil dat het toevallig tot stand komt”. Bacon liet erg veel aan het toeval. Zo zie je de witte verfstreken die het bewegende doek van de stierenvechter moeten voorstellen bijna op het canvas gegooid worden. In veel opzichten zijn de risico’s die hij opzoekt vergelijkbaar met de risico’s die de matador neemt. Berekend, maar nog steeds roekeloos.

“Bacon zien schilderen is alsof je iemand gadeslaat die met vallen en opstaan aan het koorddansen is”, stelt hedendaags kunstenaar Damien Hirst in de BBC documentaire uit 2017 over Bacon. “De man weet duidelijk waar hij mee bezig is, toch is het telkens gokken wat zijn volgende penseelstreek wordt. Het is enorm boeiend om hem bezig te zien.”

Hirst is sterk beïnvloed geweest door de werken van Bacon. Net als vele andere Britse artiesten. Denk aan Jenny Saville. Haar vlezige schilderstijl werd vaak vergeleken met die van Peter Paul Rubens en Lucian Freud, maar zelf zegt ze vooral naar Bacon te hebben gekeken. “Francis Bacon waakt over mij als ik schilder. Dat gevoel heb ik al sinds ik op mijn 15de zijn tentoonstelling bezocht in Tate. Er hangen reproducties van zijn schilderijen verspreid over mijn atelier. In tijden dat meer afstandelijke, abstracte schilderijen de kunstwereld domineerden bleef zijn figuratieve werk dicht bij ieders hart, net zoals het dat vandaag nog steeds doet.”

Het brengt ons terug bij de tentoonstelling in Londen. De grootse opstelling laat je wat ongemakkelijk achter. Bacon zorgt ervoor dat je het vertrouwen in de mensheid, onze moraliteit en superioriteit stukje bij beetje verliest. Je kunt het aankleden zoals je wilt, maar het is zoals de kunstenaar het ooit stelde, uiteindelijk zijn we inderdaad allemaal maar dieren.

Francis Bacon: Man and Beast loopt nog tot 17/4 in de Royal Academy, Londen. Eurostar biedt een 2FOR1-korting.





                                                                                                                         Francis Bacon in zijn Londense studio in 1974






Russian Billionaire Petr Aven Resigns as a Royal Academy Trustee

as Arts Institutions Face Mounting Pressure to Cut Ties with Russia




The museum says it returned the donation Aven made to support its current Francis Bacon exhibition.






The Royal Academy confirmed the news, adding that it returned to Aven the donation he made in support of “Francis Bacon: Man and Beast,” which is open at the RA until April 17. The museum declined to comment on the amount of money or terms involved in Aven’s donation “for reasons of commercial sensitivity.”

An avid art collector who has lent artworks to prominent institutions worldwide, including the Museum of Modern Art in New York and Tate in London, Aven was named as “one of Vladimir Putin’s closest oligarchs” by the European Union in a sanction document published on February 28.

The reports notes that Aven is a key shareholder of the Alfa Group, one of Russia’s largest private investment groups and the owner of Alfa Bank.

“He does not operate independently of the President’s demands,” the document said in reference to Putin.

Aven’s London-based business partner, Mikhail Fridman, was also punished by the E.U., but the pair have called the sanctions and related allegations “spurious” and “unfounded.”

Russian banking magnate Petr Aven has stepped down as a trustee of the Royal Academy in London as cultural institutions in the U.K. face increased pressure to sever ties with Russia in the aftermath of the country’s invasion of Ukraine.

The moves comes as U.K. politicians and activists call for other cultural institutions to remove allies of Putin from their boards.

“Putin supporters should be removed from our cultural institutions and galleries, and museums should run a mile from blood-drenched Russian money,” parliamentarian Chris Bryant said in a Twitter post.

Tate is under pressure because of its ties with Russian billionaire Viktor Vekselberg, who is an honorary member of the Tate Foundation.

In a statement issued to Artnet News, a museums spokesperson said Vekselberg had donated to the museum seven years ago and that his membership title is honorary.

“There is no ongoing connection,” the spokesperson added.

Vekselberg, an energy tycoon, claimed he had more than $1.5 billion worth of assets frozen since he was placed on a U.S. sanction list in 2018. (To date, Vekselberg has not been sanctioned by the U.K. or the E.U.)

Ukraine’s culture sector has been vocal in calling on major cultural institutions such as Art Basel, the Venice Biennale, and Documenta to stop working with Russia.

A petition organized by Oleksandr Tkachenko, Ukraine’s minister of culture, has thus far been signed by curator Pavlo Gudimov, the founder of Ya Gallery in Lviv; and Marta Trotsiuk, the founder of Gallery 101 and the head of the Ukrainian Gallerists Association.

Meanwhile, the Russian-owned auction house Phillips made a pro-Ukraine statement on a Instagram with an image of the country’s flag.

“We at Phillips unequivocally condemn the invasion of Ukraine. Along with the rest of the art world, we have been shocked and saddened by the tragic events unfolding in the region. We call for an immediate cessation of all hostilities in the strongest possible terms,” said Stephen Brooks, the auction house’s CEO.

The auction house added that SWIFT sanctions against Russia, which have cut the country’s banks off from their international counterparts, will have no impact on upcoming auctions.





                                         Russian billionaire Petr Aven, who resigned as a trustee of the Royal Academy in London. 






How will the war in Ukraine affect the big auction houses?




A number of the most high-profile lots coming up are by artists popular among Russians






This week’s Modern and Contemporary Art sales in London were already being viewed with some trepidation before Russia invaded Ukraine. They are always a barometer of the health of the major auction houses, and some have been predicting a further narrowing of the gap between Paris and London. Now, though, auctioneers are braced for a week without Russian buyers and with luxury economies worldwide destabilised by the war.

One director of Sotheby’s, who did not want to be named, said they were checking bulletins hourly to see whether any of their buyers and sellers was on the Government’s sanctions list. A former Sotheby’s lead auctioneer told me: “I would not like to be the auctioneer this week.”


Some concerns have also been raised about third-biggest auction house, Phillips, which is owned by Mercury, a Russian luxury goods company.

Yesterday, to put their clients at ease, Phillips let it be known unofficially that their owners were not the subject of sanctions and have no political or business connection to government or to any individuals or institutions targeted by sanctions. That list of sanctions, of course, is changing quickly. And, inconveniently, a number of the most high-profile lots are by artists popular among Russians.

Top of the menu is a powerful 1980s triptych by Francis Bacon, a favourite in Russia, that is estimated to sell for between £35 million and £55 million. The painting, which is guaranteed, is being sold by the celebrated architect Norman Foster.

There are also works by Impressionists, much favoured by Russian collectors wherever they live. Five Monets come from the collection of Daniel Snyder, the owner of the beleaguered American football club Washington Commanders (formerly the Washington Redskins). The German Expressionists, another area of Russian interest, are led by a 1913 painting of foxes by Franz Marc, sold under duress under the Nazis but now restituted to the owner’s family.

Not everyone is downbeat, however. Sotheby’s, Christie’s and Phillips are still expected to generate some £600 million over the week, 35 per cent up on this time last year, with that Franz Marc touted at a record-busting £35 million. There is also much excitement surrounding a tender naked bust portrait by Lucian Freud of his former lover, the painter Janey Longman, at £10 million to £15 million. The painting comes from the family of established British collectors Ian Stoutzker and his wife, Mercedes.

The highest price of the week is likely to be registered by the surrealist kingpin René Magritte. Sotheby’s is so enamoured of his L’Empire des lumières, which magically juxtaposes a dark-lit street at night against a luminous day-lit sky, it has painted its front exterior to resemble the picture.

Coming from the collection of one of Magritte’s patrons, the painting is said to have been on offer privately at Sotheby’s last year for €100 million (£84 million). But having been unable to place it at that price, they have offered the owner a guarantee in the region of £45 million, whether someone else bids or not. This could be a costly gamble if it backfires.

Guy Jennings, a former auctioneer who is now a director of the Fine Art Group, was previewing the sale yesterday and told The Daily Telegraph that “the mood was upbeat – almost business as usual. The Russians may not buy this week, but they have not been a dominating force outside of the Russian art sales for nearly 10 years, when Russian money was mopping up Impressionist paintings and the likes of Roman Abramovich were paying millions for works by Bacon and Freud. And the Asians are here.”

Melanie Clore, a former chairman of Sotheby’s Europe and co-founder of the art advisory Clore Wyndham, reminds us how resilient the market is. “The 2008 financial recession did not immediately affect the art market, nor did the pandemic,” she said.

“Of course, the current political situation is utterly deplorable, but great art is still great art, and real collectors, as opposed to speculators, will still want to buy. Also, while the Russians won’t be buying, the market is so global it is not overly affected when a single nation withdraws.”

Specialist Russian art dealer, James Butterwick, is looking on the bright side. “I am the biggest Ukrainian art dealer in the West – and that could just be an advantage.”

But as far as the larger market is concerned, he says: “No one can predict the real impact of this war. We’ll have a better idea by the end of this week.”





Capitalist Realism Comes to Russia




  Bacon in Moscow By James Birch







In September 1988, I found myself in the back of a Moscow taxi with a gallery owner from London, now dead. ‘Taxi’, in those days, was a contingent term in the Soviet Union. Ours was a private Lada, the gallerist having done a deal with its driver. He was good at deals. Handsomely coiffed (he had been a hairdresser in a former life), the gallerist was known for spotting early gaps in the market and making money from them. Now he was on the scent of Soviet art.

‘I went to see the widow Tatlin this morning,’ he said, in a patrician drawl not his own. ‘She’s been hiding her husband’s work under the linoleum of her bedroom all these years.’ He examined his buffed nails. ‘I gave her five thou for the lot.’ Vladimir Tatlin, the great Soviet Constructivist, had died in 1953, months after his tormentor, Joseph Stalin. Stalinism had not died with the Dear Leader. For the next four decades, Tatlin’s widow, Aleksandra Nikolaevna Korsakova, had secreted her late husband’s work in their flat, aware that the revelation of its existence might lead to its destruction, and her own. Now eighty-four, she had been seduced by hard currency and the promise of securing her husband’s legacy in the West. Each of the works bought by the London gallerist would fetch very much more than the sum he had paid her for all of them. Korsakova died eighteen months later.

This story might serve as a coda to James Birch’s engaging new book, Bacon in Moscow. Both the manicured gallerist and I were in the Soviet Union for the opening of an exhibition of paintings by Francis Bacon at the Central House of Artists, the first involving a living Westerner in the USSR since 1917. It was Birch’s brainchild; this book is his memoir of staging it.

Birch, too, was a gallerist, although of a different stripe from the one in the Moscow cab. His early galleries had shown work by an eclectic mix of people – the cheerily nudist Neo Naturists, the Surrealist Eileen Agar – united only by Birch’s admiration for them. He was a dealer rather than a wheeler-dealer: an endearing moment in the book comes when he describes how he managed to talk himself out of the gift of a painting proffered to him by Francis Bacon at a boozy London lunch. Birch emerges from Bacon in Moscow as a decent naïf who found himself suddenly adrift on geopolitical pack ice, looking about him with alarm as cracks opened and killer whales frolicked all around.

For Bacon’s Moscow exhibition turned out to be about a great deal more than art. Four years before it, Margaret Thatcher had croaked, in her new bass contralto, that Mikhail Gorbachev was a man with whom she could do business. The last word was carefully chosen. Whatever else glasnost and perestroika might mean for the West, they would open the gates to carpetbagging of the kind visited on the widow Tatlin by the coiffed London dealer.

The most obviously sinister of the actors in this drama was Sergei Klokov, Birch’s Soviet minder and a KGB officer with a taste for Pierre Cardin suits. (Asked by Birch what he had done in the Soviet–Afghan War, he had blankly replied, ‘I operated a flame-thrower.’) The pair had been introduced by a self-styled ‘cultural entrepreneur’ (read: carpet dealer) with the words, ‘Klokov will fix it … Klokov can fix anything.’ ‘It’ was a proposed exhibition in the USSR involving one of the artists whose work Birch showed in his gallery in London: the breast-baring Jennifer Binnie, perhaps, or a little-known cross-dressing ceramicist called Grayson Perry. In the event, even Klokov could not fix this. As Birch’s contact at the Ministry of Culture woodenly observed when the idea was put to him, ‘Avant-garde art is not always ideologically correct.’

In any case, the Western-wise Klokov had bigger ideas. Far better, he thought, for Birch to bring Andy Warhol to town. Unfortunately, approaches to Warhol’s fixer in New York revealed that Andy would rather die. It was the Soviet painters Birch interviewed during a fact-finding trip to Moscow who came up with an alternative. Asked which of their fellows in the West they most admired, they answered as one, ‘Francis Bacon’. ‘If you are Soviet then the way that Bacon paints, it feels like he is with you,’ said one. ‘He shows the dark side of life … The darkness in our soul.’

This was good news for Birch. By chance, Bacon was an old friend of his parents. As a child, the gallerist-to-be had been so obsessed by the American series Rawhide that he had been nicknamed after it. Reproduced in the book is a note from the artist to the young Birch: ‘To Rawhide, with all best wishes, Francis Bacon.’ Happily, too, Bacon had a soft spot for Soviet culture, incorporating images from the films of Sergei Eisenstein into several of his most noted works. On a less lofty note, he also had a tendresse for Soviet men. ‘When I was younger I met two Russian sailors in Berlin,’ Bacon confided to Birch, adding sotto voce, ‘they were very good to me.’

Not all the dodgy characters in Birch’s story were Russian. In the 1980s, the British Council in Moscow was suspected of being a nest of Western spies. When Birch approached the British Council for help with funding for the Bacon show, they saw a chance to win back favour. Their announcement to the press of Bacon’s forthcoming show simply said that it was being held under their aegis; Birch was not credited at all. Without asking Bacon’s permission, the British Council also arranged a round of headline-grabbing functions, including tea at the British embassy, for the famously establishment-shunning artist to attend. This was an own goal of almost ruinous proportions. Bacon, spooked, refused to go to Moscow, sending instead his delightfully foul-mouthed partner, John Edwards, to whom Birch’s book is dedicated.

I found Edwards one of the most beguiling men I ever met. In the bar of the National Hotel one night, he stared down a huge and drunken Finn who had been bullying the babushka attendant. Although Edwards was half the man’s size, it was clear to any reasonable barfly that he would be nasty in a fight. The Finn meekly got up and left; it was hard not to cheer. The last time I saw Edwards, he had been wafted as a VIP through departure formalities at Sheremetyevo airport and was happily shoplifting in the airport’s duty-free store. ‘Cor, Charles,’ he said, slipping a watch into his pocket with a misty look in his eye. ‘It’s fucking good here.’

Bacon’s decision to send Edwards in his place wasn’t meant simply as a slight to the British Council. Then as now, Russian society was institutionally homophobic. The Soviet Union of Artists demanded that Birch send them photographs of all works to be included in the show beforehand. Klokov wrote to him explaining, ‘I was told that outspokenly gay subjects with two male figures and cock-exalting canvases would never be understood by Soviet public.’ The union turned down the Tate’s offer of a loan of the Triptych of August 1972 on the grounds that its central panel showed two men buggering each other. Sending his male partner as his official representative was a silent two fingers on Bacon’s part to the entire Soviet system.

Without its author wishing it to, Bacon in Moscow reads as a moral fable. The Soviet system was absolutist and crushing, but it was, at least on paper, high-minded. The slogans of the Central House of Artists have, thirty years on, been replaced with the dictum that greed is good. If Russian artists now believe in the transformative power of art, the transformation is of their bank balances rather than their souls. Sergei Klokov was an early convert. Finally meeting Francis Bacon in London after the show was over, Klokov asked Bacon for the gift of a painting, to be left on Klokov’s death to the Pushkin Museum in Moscow. Bacon, touched, obliged. Klokov took the picture straight to Sotheby’s, who sold it for over £250,000. With the money, the by now ex-KGB man bought a cobra farm in one of the ex-Soviet Union’s newly independent republics. It went bust; Klokov died in 2017 at the age of fifty-seven.

One of very few Westerners in Bacon in Moscow who voices anything like the quixotic idealism that still motivated many communists is its author. ‘I believed (and still believe) in the power of art,’ Birch writes wistfully. ‘Back then the world was divided into two heavily armed camps bristling with nuclear weapons but I felt art could slip through the battle lines and open people’s minds.’ This his exhibition undoubtedly did: 400,000 people queued to see Bacon’s paintings in the few weeks they were on show, filling the visitors’ book with comments of uncommon acuity. A V, an engineer aged thirty-five, wrote, ‘Bacon is beautiful in his monstrosity. If he is mad, he is neither more nor less so than the modern world.’



                             John Edwards alongside a poster of his portrait by Francis Bacon





Das Biest in meinem Kopf







Im Jahre 1949 gab Francis Bacon dem Time Magazine ein Interview, in dem er verriet, er wolle malen wie Velázquez, aber mit der Textur von Hippopotamus-Haut. Steht man vor seinem ein Jahr zuvor entstandenen Gemälde Head I aus dem Metropolitan Museum of Art, dann wird klar, mit welcher Brillanz er diese Textur zu schaffen wusste.


Wurde hier mit Nilpferdhaut gearbeitet statt mit Leinwand?


Aus der Nähe meint man zunächst, Bacon habe tatsächlich Nilpferdhaut statt Leinwand verwendet, so organisch, ja zerklüftet heben sich die Farbflächen in ihre Weiß- und Grauschattierungen vom Untergrund ab. Man denkt an die Bemerkung des Picasso-Biografen Robert Melville, der fragte: Wie ist es diesem Mann gelungen, eine Haut von solch beunruhigender Textur hervorzurufen? Er könne die Faktur nicht von dem unterscheiden, was sie formt, gestand Melville. Hier ufert der feiste Hals nach unten hin scheinbar grenzenlos aus, oben endet der Kopf im Nichts, bleibt nasen— und augenlos. Das scharfzahnige Gebiss ist um 90 Grad im aufgerissenen Mund gedreht. Head I ist ein Prototyp der ebenso bedrohlichen wie gequälten Kreaturen, die das Werk des im Jahr 1909 in Dublin geborenen Francis Bacon bestimmen sollten.

Das Gebiss übernahm Bacon aus der Fotografie eines zähnefletschenden Schimpansen. Dieses Tier wird im Verlauf der Ausstellung Francis Bacon — Man and Beast in der Londoner Royal Academy of Arts noch mehrmals auftauchen, unter anderem als eingesperrtes Monstrum, und in Form einer vergleichsweise munteren Studie, auf einer Kiste hockend, vor fuchsienrotem Hintergrund. Die Schau konzentriert sich auf einen eher vernachlässigten Aspekt der Arbeiten des Enfant terrible der Nachkriegskunst: Die Darstellung von Tieren und ihren Einfluss auf seine Darstellung von Menschen.

Bacon war der festen Überzeugung, er könne Menschen und ihre Natur besser verstehen, indem er das Verhalten von Tieren analysierte. Er war in einem Gestüt bei Dublin aufgewachsen, der Umgang mit Tieren und Jagd war für ihn von früher Kindheit an Alltag gewesen. Er sammelte sein Leben lang Fotos und Bewegungsstudien von Tieren und die Unbefangenheit animalischen Verhaltens prägte seine Sicht auf das Verhalten von Menschen.

In den letzten Jahren des Zweiten Weltkriegs begann Bacon, seine sogenannten Biomorphs zu malen. Ohne diese seltsamen Hybridwesen, bei denen oft Körperteile fehlen und andere grotesk vergrößert und verformt erscheinen, wären spätere Horrordesigns wie etwa H.R. Gigers Xenomorph aus den Alien-Filmen undenkbar. Fury (1944) mit seinem weit aufgesperrten Rachen, dem langen Hals und den Reißzähnen erscheint geradezu wie ein Prototyp solcher Monster. In London ist die frühe Version ebenso zu sehen wie die zweite, weitaus glatter gestaltete von 1988. Daran, wie weit die Entstehungszeit dieser beiden Versionen auseinanderliegt, lässt sich ablesen, wie obsessiv und Œuvre-bestimmend seine Beschäftigung mit solch spekulativen Ungeheuern war.

Die schiere Fleischlichkeit und Kreatürlichkeit der Gemälde, die in dieser superb kuratierten Schau zusammengestellt wurden, reflektiert Bacons Bemerkung, wir seien alle Fleisch, alle potenzielle Kadaver. Eine Reihe der zahlreichen Arbeiten, die auf Velázquez’ Porträt von Papst Innozenz X. basieren, gehören zu den berühmtesten solcher Kadavergestalten, die in der Royal Academy gezeigt werden. Studie für einen Menschlichen Kopf und Studie für ein Porträt, beide von 1953, sind zähnefletschende Zombies.

Doch zu den faszinierendsten Motiven gehören jene, die tatsächlich Tiere repräsentieren. In dem im selben Jahr wie die Zombiestudien entstandenen Mann mit Hund etwa ist das Herrchen nur schemenhaft im Hintergrund zu erkennen. Der Hund, den er an der Leine führt, ist ein sehnig-muskulöses Etwas, kraftvoll und wie zum Sprung bereit, ein Staffordshire-Terrier vielleicht, die verwischte Essenz potenzieller Bissigkeit. Vorlage war die fotografische Bewegungsstudie eines vor sich hin trabenden Hundes aus Eadweard Muybridge’s Human and Animal Locomotion, einer der Hauptinspirationsquellen Bacons.


Der nackte Mann wirkt so verletzlich wie ein Steppentier


Von Muybridge übernahm er auch die Gestalt eines sich auf allen vieren fortbewegenden gelähmten Kindes. Das Unbehagen, das den Betrachter angesichts dieser Animalisierung eines als beschädigt und offenkundig minderwertig angesehenen Körpers überkommt, war womöglich ausnahmsweise keine der typischen Bacon-Provokationen. Es geht vielmehr einher mit dem Wandel der Sicht auf die Hierarchisierung und Stigmatisierung von Körpern, die bis in das 20. Jahrhundert hinein Standard war.

Anders verhält es sich mit Mann, der im Gras kniet (1952), einer Leihgabe der Münchner Pinakothek der Moderne. Bacon hatte gerade eine Reise nach Südafrika unternommen. Er war fasziniert von den trockenen, kargen Grasflächen und begeistert von den Tieren, die sich auf ihnen bewegten. Der nackte Mann im Gras, bar allen zivilisatorischen Schutzes, wird auf die Verletzlichkeit und Offenheit eines Tieres reduziert. Die Behauptung eines überlegenen menschlichen Raffinements gegenüber anderen Kreaturen erscheint nur noch wenig überzeugend.

Die Kuratoren der Londoner Ausstellung haben Werke aus allen Schaffensphasen Bacon’s zusammengetragen. Die spätesten Arbeiten, Bacon starb im Jahr 1992, beziehen sich auf eine besondere und besonders brutale Form menschlicher Interaktion mit Tieren, den Stierkampf. In typisch aphoristisch-erotomaner Weise erklärte Bacon, eine Corrida sei wie Boxen — ein wunderbarer Aperitif zum Sex. Tatsächlich kam er erst vergleichsweise spät zu diesem Sujet, das sein großes Idol Pablo Picasso immer und immer wieder gemalt hatte. Die drei Stierkampfbilder von 1969, die in der Royal Academy erstmals zusammen zu sehen sind, stellen eine der unmittelbarsten Begegnungen zwischen Mensch und Tier in Bacon’s Werk. Der kinetische Wirbel dieser Darstellungen, ihre farbliche Helle machen diese Gemälde zu einigen der erstaunlichsten, die Bacon je schuf. Neben den offensichtlichen Grundfragen, welche die Corrida immer wieder aufgeworfen hat, jenen nach Gewalt und Erotik, Leben und Tod, interessierte Bacon auch die Heuchelei jener, die den Stierkampf als brutal verurteilten, aber kein Problem damit hatten, Pelze zu tragen und Fleisch zu essen.

Das letzte vollendete Werk Bacon’s beschließt auch die Schau: Studie eines Stiers (1991). Drei Viertel der Leinwand sind bedeckt mit Staub, den Bacon in seinem berüchtigt schmuddeligen Londoner Atelier gesammelt hatte. Die Morbidität der Staubsymbolik war wichtig für den Künstler, der gern sagte, nur der Staub sei unvergänglich, schließlich zerfielen wir alle irgendwann wieder zu Staub. Er selbst starb ein Jahr darauf, bei einer Reise nach Madrid. Das Bild zeigt das Rind völlig anders als in den Stierkampfszenen gut 20 Jahre zuvor. Es ist ganz und gar statisch, geradezu minimalistisch reduziert auf Hörner und Schwärze. Die Stierstudie zeigt die reduzierte Meisterschaft des späten Bacon. Hier findet das Tier gleichsam zu sich: Kein Körperhorror mehr, nur noch reine, in sich abgeschlossene Existenz.

Francis Bacon: Man and Beast in der Royal Academy of Arts, London, bis 17. April.  Katalog 19,99 Pfund.





                                      Francis Bacon’s “Head VI” (1949) ist ein Kopf, der im Nichts endet, nasen— und augenlos.






Humanity and history at odds:


Francis Bacon’s Triptych 1986-7




With its references to Woodrow Wilson and Leon Trotsky, this masterpiece encapsulates Bacon’s

contemplation of pain, isolation and mortality in the face of history’s ruthless advance






When the Tate Gallery celebrated Francis Bacon (1909-1992) with a second retrospective in 1985, its director at the time, Sir Alan Bowness, declared him ‘the greatest living painter’.

By then in his seventies, Bacon had been exploring the raw sensation of the human experience for more than 40 years. ‘I feel ever so strongly that an artist must be nourished by his passions and his despairs,’ he told art critic John Gruen in 1991. ‘These things alter an artist, whether for the good or the better or the worse.’

The following year, at the height of his fame, Bacon painted Triptych 1986-7, three monumental canvases that conflate public and private histories in his rarest and most celebrated format.

The suited figure in the left-hand panel is based on a press image of the US President Woodrow Wilson leaving the Quai d’Orsay during the Treaty of Versailles negotiations in 1919.

The right-hand panel is an over-scaled depiction of Leon Trotsky’s cloth-covered recording equipment, inspired by a photograph of his study taken soon after his assassination in Mexico City in August 1940. A single lamp illuminates the blood-stained sheet, a metaphor perhaps for the fleeting nature of life.

In the centre panel sits a figure resembling Bacon’s then-partner, John Edwards. His pose is reminiscent of the artist’s former lover, George Dyer, in the haunting eulogy Triptych August 1972, one of a series of ‘Black Triptychs’ that Bacon painted following Dyer’s suicide in 1971. With his naked body dissolving and his gaze fixed on the bloodied white sheet, he attempts to clasp the incongruous pair of cricket pads he is wearing, as if desperately trying to remain in the present.

The images, though half-connected by the strip of pavement, remain self-contained, the solitude of the figures heightened by the dark, canvas-like voids behind them.

‘It is an extraordinary meditation on the passage of time,’ says Katharine Arnold, head of Post-War and Contemporary Art Europe at Christie’s in London. ‘In the grand tapestries of life, death, love, art and war, Bacon seems to suggest that we are all ultimately alone.’

Between 1962 and 1991, Bacon produced just 28 large-scale triptychs, each measuring 78 x 58 inches (198 x 147.5 cm), nearly half of which reside in museums worldwide.

Triptych 1986-7, one of few such Bacon triptychs to remain in private hands, will be offered at auction for the first time on 1 March in Christie’s 2oth/21st Century: London Evening Sale, a key auction within the 20/21 Shanghai to London sale series.

‘We’re thrilled to present the painting as a leading highlight of our London Evening Sale,’ says Arnold. ‘The quality and power of such a masterpiece are sure to appeal to our global collector base.’

Bacon began his career painting crucifixions, papal portraits and other instances of mortal reckoning, finding fame in the mid 1940s with his seminal Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion (1944), above, now held in Tate’s collection.

Chris Stephens, the former head of displays and lead curator of modern British art at Tate Britain, has called the painting ‘a turning point in the history of British art. It’s a work that was seen immediately as a brutally frank and horrifically pessimistic response to the Second World War.’

As the 1950s progressed, Bacon’s own life began to infiltrate his work, with portraits of friends and lovers taking centre stage. Famously, however, he did not paint them from life, explaining that ‘even in the case of friends who will come and pose, I’ve had photographs taken for portraits because I very much prefer working from the photographs than from them’.

Working from secondary imagery also allowed him, he said, to engage with the impulses of the ‘nervous system’. In his ferocious contemplation of the human condition, he sought to reveal the raw animal spirit beneath, or what he called ‘the pulsations of a person’.

By the time he painted Triptych 1986-7, Bacon had lived through almost the full gamut of the 20th century, experiencing personal triumph and turmoil in extreme measures. While basking in the extraordinary success of his Tate retrospective, he was still haunted by Dyer’s tragic death, and had spent much of the previous decade in painterly confrontation with his own mortality. It is perhaps no coincidence that the source images in Triptych 1986-7  span nearly the entire length of Bacon’s life.

‘The large-scale triptych format offered Bacon the opportunity to trace his life back through the historic events of the 20th century, instilling the canvases with his lived experiences, his triumphs and his traumas,’ says Arnold.

The historic implications of the iconography have come to resonate on many levels, too. The juxtaposition of Wilson and Trotsky has been interpreted by some as a recapitulation of Bacon’s intention to ‘paint the history of Europe in my lifetime’, and by others as an allusion to the American passport that was given to Trotsky in 1917, enabling him to travel from New York and re-enter Russia.

Then there’s the plinth on which Edwards sits. Propped open by an extended chair leg, it resembles a large reference book. Could this be what the Bacon scholar Martin Harrison calls the artist’s ‘sardonic review of the failings of a century’?

The year after Triptych 1986-7  was painted, it was one of 23 works by Bacon to be shown at the New Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow — the first exhibition by a well-known artist from the West to take place in Soviet Russia. The Iron Curtain would fall the following year.

‘Though many viewers did not recognise the Trotsky photograph as a source,’ says Arnold, ‘the painting heralded a sea change in the country’s political attitudes towards art.’

Just over a decade later, the work made its American institutional debut in the Yale Center for British Art’s Bacon touring retrospective. As it travelled the country, its nod to US history would undoubtedly have resonated with American audiences.

Most recently, the work was included in the Pompidou Centre’s acclaimed 2019-2020 exhibition Bacon en toutes lettres.

‘Bacon’s ability to translate the full gamut of our emotions is perfectly encapsulated in this masterpiece,’ says Arnold. ‘The fact that it has been so widely exhibited is testament to its stature within his oeuvre.’





                                                                 President Wilson leaving the Quai d’Orsay during the Versailles Peace Conference in 1919.






                                                  Francis Bacon with Triptych 1986-7 at his 1987 show Peintures Récentes at Galerie Lelong in Paris.







Francis Bacon’s ‘Trotsky’ triptych tipped


to fetch up to US$75m at auction







LONDON, Feb 24 — A Francis Bacon triptych that depicts the aftermath of Russian revolutionary Leon Trotsky’s 1940 assassination in Mexico City is expected to fetch up to US$75 million (RM314 million) when it goes under the hammer next week.

Described by Christie’s as among the iconoclastic Irish-born painter’s last great paintings, “Triptych 1986-7” features then US President Woodrow Wilson leaving the post-World War One Treaty of Versailles meeting in 1919 and Bacon’s friend John Edwards on its other two canvases.

The British auction house’s price estimate for the work, part of a March 1 sale in London of 20th and 21st century masterworks, is £35 million to £55 million (RM198 million – RM312 million).

“Bacon lived between 1909 and 1992, almost the full length of the 20th century,” Katharine Arnold, head of post-war and contemporary art at Christie’s in Europe, told Reuters.

“And here he’s reflecting on the passage of time, those moments that were pivotal moments in Western history in particular, but also had implications for the whole world.”

Other lots in the sale include Lucian Freud’s 1986-87 portrait “Girl with Closed Eyes”, estimated at £10 million to £15 million.

The prize item in an “Art of the Surreal” auction being held on the same evening is a surrealist self-portrait by Pablo Picasso.

The 1929 piece, called “La fenêtre ouverte” and depicting the Spanish artist and his muse Marie-Thérèse Walter, has a price estimate of £14 million to 24 million.

“This is one of 37 large size Marie-Thérèse paintings, which are the most expensive Picassos in the market,” said Olivier Camu, Christie’s deputy chairman, Impressionist and Modern Art.

“Of those ... there are only 13 in private hands. The last one we sold, sold for US$103 million last year.”



                  A gallery assistant poses by an artwork titled ‘Triptych 1986-7’ by Francis Bacon             














The Royal Academy’s Man and Beast offers the chance to see many prime paintings by Bacon, which is probably all you need to know to book a ticket. It’s about a third animals and two thirds humans as animals – for ‘we’re all animals’, as Bacon liked to say – and 100% bracing nihilism. There are no horses (did Bacon never paint a horse, despite growing up with them?) but plenty of typical Bacon tropes – screaming mouths, cuboid cages, blurred and distorted bodies… I found myself looking at his shadows more than I had before:

The man as shadow: the owner, one assumes, of the snarling canine in ‘Man with a Dog’, 1953, has been reduced to just a shadow of himself. No wonder the dog seems drawn to the underworld beneath the drain.

The shadowed splat: Bacon liked to fling a loaded brush at the canvas to introduce the drama of chance. We might read it as ejaculatory, which also makes sense as Bacon declared bullfighting ‘a marvellous aperitif to sex’.  In this prominent example the ‘accidental’ mark is emphasised by the addition of a shadow (‘Second Version of Study for a Bullfight No. 1’, 1969).

The flesh shadow: following on from George Dyer’s death, the shadows in Bacon’s paintings of his late lover feature pools of pink, as if his body is melting into the shadows. These are from ‘Triptych, August 1972’ (above and top image).

The shadow of death: perhaps death is implied by every shadow, especially in Bacon, given his obsession with mortality. His last-ever painting, ‘Study of a Bull’, 1991, makes this explicit by texturing the dark with dust.

Art writer and curator Paul Carey-Kent sees a lot of shows: we asked him to jot down whatever came into his head





              The flesh shadow: following on from George Dyer’s death, the shadows in Bacon’s paintings of his late lover feature pools of pink, as if his body is melting into the shadows.






Bacon in Moscow — how a western artist stormed the Iron Curtain




A fascinating memoir by curator James Birch on a defining moment in 1988 when Russia began to open

up to the world after decades of self-isolation






Few art exhibitions are truly historic. The Francis Bacon show in Moscow in September 1988 was just that: an event that changed perceptions and left an indelible mark — an amorphous Bacon-like blob — on Russia’s cultural landscape.

Coming at the height of glasnost it was one of the first times since 1917 that a living western artist had been granted the accolade of a major exhibition in the capital of the Soviet empire. Nikolai Andrievich, a distinguished Russian artist born in 1944, remembers it well. “You have to bear in mind that this was the very first time that we spectators ever encountered contemporary, up-to-the-minute art in the flesh,” he told me recently. His generation had only ever seen poor-quality reproductions in well-thumbed western art journals. “And here you saw the real thing . . . For me, it was a revelation.”

Bacon in Moscow by James Birch tells the story of the exhibition. An English curator and gallery owner who was a close friend of Bacon’s, he was the prime mover behind the show and his tale of how he managed to pull it off is fascinating.

At the book’s heart is an engaging narrative about a time that now seems halcyon — the moment Moscow finally opened up to the world after decades of self-isolation. In an age where Russia has reverted to autocratic type, a new cold war looms and Ukraine is threatened with invasion, that period now seems like a lost dream.

The idea of bringing Bacon to Russia came to Birch in the mid-1980s while visiting a group of Soviet artists in their studios in Moscow. He asks one of them which western painter he likes the most. The answer: Francis Bacon.

“If you are Soviet then the way that Bacon paints, it feels like he is with you,” he says. “Bacon sees the darkness. He shows the dark side of life, the dark side of society . . . The darkness in our soul.”

That conversation plants a seed in Birch’s mind. It is encouraged to grow by his friend Sergei Klokov, a careerist KGB agent he first meets in Paris in 1985, who assures him the queues for a Bacon show “will be bigger than those for Lenin’s tomb”. A footsoldier in Gorbachev’s liberalisation drive, Klokov sees the political utility in such an event. “It would be a big sign for the whole world to see: Look, perestroika (reform) is working,” he tells Birch.

The book describes in detail how Birch engineered an event he sums up as an “unimaginable intrusion of western culture into the heart of the Soviet system”. Some of the cultural diplomacy can be tedious, as can the endless accounts of champagne lunches with Bacon and his companion John Edwards in London (“the wine at Aspinall’s was Château Laffite at £400 a bottle . . . it was . . . delicious.”) The book is occasionally let down by cliché: in the Russian scenes there is the usual cast of “scowling” waiters and people with “ashen complexions”, “wide kipper ties” and “badly cut Terylene flared trousers.”

Where it succeeds is in its evocation of Moscow on the cusp of a new liberal age, where people starved of western culture gorge themselves on their new freedoms. Birch enjoys lavish vodka parties with the jeunesse dorée of the Soviet capital — a femme fatale called Elena Khudiakova who craves to get her name in The Face magazine, and Klokov himself, an Afghan vet whose grandfather was commander-in-chief of the Soviet air force and who is the source of most of the jokes in the book. There is much speculation as to how the Soviet censors will view Bacon’s brutal images, the paralytic children, screaming popes and grotesquely contorted bodies. But Klokov is most concerned about the explicitly gay paintings. “Cock-exalting canvases would never be understood by Soviet public,” Birch quotes him as saying.

In the end, the show is a huge success — though with shops beginning to empty out of food, western art isn’t uppermost in the mind of the average Muscovite. “We want bacon, not Francis Bacon,” one wag writes in the visitors’ book.

Since 1988, Bacon’s status in Russia has only grown. But the awkward details have been hidden away. “The fact that he was gay and that his partner was his leading model was not spoken of,” Nikolai Ivanov, a prominent Russian art historian, told me.

Birch’s account ends on an elegiac note. Klokov buys a snake farm in Uzbekistan hoping “to produce cobra venom commercially as a health tonic”. (The business failed.) Khudiakova, it transpires, spied on Birch for the KGB, filing 2,000 pages of reports on his activities in Paris, Moscow and London. It is a sad ending to a big adventure that encapsulates the transformative power of art.

Bacon in Moscow by James Birch with Michael Hodges, Cheerio, £17.99, 208 pages    Guy Chazan is the FT’s Berlin bureau chief





     Gallerist and curator James Birch, right, who organised the 1988 Moscow show, with Francis Bacon, left, and Bacon’s companion, John Edwards, in 1987






Francis Bacon’s triptych from prominent architect’s


collection expected to garner US$47.6 million







During 2022’s Spring auction season, Christie’s 20th / 21st Century: Shanghai to London Evening Sales will be the focus. Amongst its highlights, British painter Francis Bacon’s Triptych 1986-7 will lead the London Evening Sale on 1 March.

In addition to illustrating a close companion during the famous British artist’s late years, the painting also depicts former American President, Woodrow Wilson and the scene of assassination of Soviet Russian revolutionary, Leon Trotsky. The triptych is estimated between £35 million and 55 million pounds (around US$47.6 million to 74.9 million dollars).

After 30 years in private hands, the painting will be auctioned. According to Western media sources, the triptych’s current owner is Norman Foster – a prominent British modernist architect.

Bacon’s Triptych 1986-7 is currently owned by British modernist architect, Norman Foster, Baron Foster of Thames Bank. He is best known for designing key buildings around the world, such as the Great Court at the British Museum, the Apple Park in California and Hong Kong Shanghai Banking Corporation building in Hong Kong.

First exhibited at Marlborough Gallery in 1988, the work was later purchased from the New York gallery by Foster in 2007. In 2020, Bacon’s triptych was exhibited at a Centre Pompidou show devoted to the artist.

From 1944 to 1986, Bacon created 28 triptychs. In 2013, his personal auction record was set with a triptych – when Three Studies of Lucian Freud (1969) was sold for US$142.4 million dollars at Christie’s New York.

The British figurative painter’s protagonists range from lovers, close friends, self-portraits and the famous series of portraits of Popes. In this present auction, the Triptych 1986-7 is a rare amalgam of one of Bacon’s companions and two historical figures.

On the left panel, former American President Woodrow Wilson (1856-1924) is depicted from a scene during World War One – the moment he stepped out of the Paris Peace Conference at Quai d’Orsay after signing the Treaty of Versailles in 1919.

During the peace talks, Wilson established the League of Nations to maintain world peace. Despite its best efforts, it failed to prevent the aggression of Axis powers (Germany, Italy and Japan) and ultimately, the outbreak of World War Two. In 1946, the League ceased operations but many of its components were transferred into the new United Nations.

At the centre panel, John Edwards is illustrated. He was Bacon’s closest and trusted companion, and inherited the painter’s house, studio and paintings after his death in 1992.

Edwards was the son of a London dockworker and Bacon was one of the most famous faces on the London social scene. In 1974, Bacon met Edwards at the Colony Room, a private club in Soho. The artist was in his late 70s, while Edwards was his early 20s.

The process of the two from meeting was eventful. They first met at the Colony Room’s bar, where Edward worked. At first, Edward learned from Muriel Belcher – the club’s owner – that the famous Bacon would come to his bar with a group of friends, and ordered in a large quantity of the artist’s favourite champagne.

Unexpectedly, Bacon did not show up in the end and left Edwards infuriated. A few days later, when Bacon finally arrived, Edward confronted him for his selfishness and the inconvenience he caused. The encounter startled Bacon, but also intrigued him.

The two remained close until Bacon’s death. Edward’s presence also allowed Bacon to get over former partner, George Dyer’s death and propelled him to a new style of his late paintings.

On the right panel, the scene of Leon Trotsky’s (1879-1940) assassination is depicted.

During the early 20th century, Trotsky was an important revolutionary and theorist in Soviet Russia. He was one of key leaders of the October Revolution, as well as a key figure who established the Red Army and Fourth International.

After Lenin’s death in 1924, Trotsky’s rival and Soviet Russia’s political leader, Joseph Stalin, grew increasingly in power. He expelled Trotsky from the party and sent him on political exile.

In August 1940 and during asylum in Mexico, Trotsky was assassinated by Spanish Communist and Soviet Union agent, Ramon Mercader – fatally hit with an ice pick on the head.

Whether Bacon’s triptych sells within expectations remains to be seen. The Value will continue to report on its development.





                                                                                                                      Francis Bacon posing in front of Triptych 1986-7






The Morbid Pleasures of Francis Bacon




In Man and Beast at the Royal Academy, London, the uncanny overlapping of familiar and strange

is a psychic reminder of our animalness, provoking horror more than genetic discourse






A fresh curatorial premise can renew our experience of an artist’s work, which is especially welcome with an artist as iconic and mythically familiar as Francis Bacon. Curator Michael Peppiatt does this by homing in on the images of animals in his work, stating that Bacon ‘sensed how closely man and animal would interact, whether caged or uncaged, to the point where each depends on the other to survive’. This statement feels forced, its ecological rhetoric ill-matched to Bacon’s nightmarish, often fantastical creatures, which defy taxonomy by being germane first and foremost to the paint. Head I (1948), shown by itself in the opening room, both refuses and struggles to be, its only anatomical elements being a human ear and a chimpanzee’s mouth, locked in a contortion of existential agony. It is less of a literal interaction between human and chimpanzee, or their respective orifices, than a nightmare born of the painter’s skill in suspending resolution. We are left hanging, as though subjected to some Hadean punishment, which along with Bacon’s hard-to-match virtuosity has its own morbid pleasure.

Despite Bacon’s evident interest in animals – stemming from his father’s profession as a racehorse trainer, the story goes – the human presence always predominates, animals coming second to the anthropocentric endeavour of art and image-making. Wildlife magazines and Eadweard Muybridge’s time-lapse photography were the mediated form of much of Bacon’s engagement with the animalistic. In Dog (1952) and Man with Dog (1953) Bacon experimented with a single image captured by Muybridge, repeating it as compositional device to varied effects. In the former the dog functions as a kind of energetic motor, bringing antagonism to the otherwise serene, almost sterile composition. In the latter it partakes in an experiment in tonality, fighting to prevent the image from disappearing into blurry nonexistence, while somehow speaking to the shadowy human legs behind it in a semiabstract tableau of urban, masculine loneliness.

The physiognomic, scrambled portraits and studies of the human body remind us of animality’s relationship with the well-established Baconesque tropes of carnality and mortality. Two Studies from the Human Body (1974–75) look almost like apes in a zoo, but they are hardly zoological; the uncanny overlapping of familiar and strange is a psychic reminder of our animalness, provoking horror more than genetic discourse. The picture is funny, too. Putting a baboonish head on an athletic, all but classically proportioned body, with jets of semenlike paint shooting from the buttocks of the figure upstage, it pokes fun at humanity’s civilised pretensions. Indeed, there is a touch of the camp in Bacon’s pink outline of an ape in ‘Pope and Chimpanzee’ (c. 1960), which he could have drawn from one of Charles Darwin’s diagrams, as if to mock the scientific establishment as well as the religious.

Many of the works reek of sex, the aesthetic tension between pain and pleasure, violence and grace, suggestive of Bacon’s sadomasochistic predilections. Although his sexuality is touched upon – with reference to his overtly homoerotic Two Figures (1953) and Two Figures in the Grass (1954) – more could have been made of it (he did claim, after all, that he found the smell of horse dung ‘sexually alluring’). Bacon was openly gay when it was illegal to be so, for which reason this element of his life and work was wilfully overlooked in earlier criticism. By giving what feels like perfunctory attention to the issue, the exhibition tends to perpetuate this oversight.

Most of all, the show inadvertently reveals the futility of trying to taxonomise the subjects of Bacon’s work in any literal sense. It exemplifies the dangers of uncritically aligning eco-theory with artistic intention; the wall text often quotes from Bacon himself, without once considering his rampant tendency to self-mythologise. One of the highlights here is the appearance all three of his bullfight studies (all 1969) in a single room for the first time. But more than ‘challenging a clear distinction between human and animal’, as the wall text argues, surely the noteworthy union here is the marriage between the subject matter and Bacon’s ability to choreograph ineffable formulations of elegance and machismo, movement, poise and stillness in paint. The distinctions are unclear, but they are felt, they are there – it’s just we don’t know how he puts it all together. In Bacon’s world, we are all paint.

Francis Bacon: Man and Beast is at the Royal Academy of Arts, London, until 17 April




                                           ‘Francis Bacon: Man and Beast’, 2022 (installation view, Royal Academy of Arts, London). Photo: David Parry






One of Francis Bacon’s last great paintings could fetch more than €30m



Bacon captures passage of time





WHEN it was shown in Moscow in 1988, Francis Bacon’s Triptych 1986-87 was the first painting by a well-known artist from the West to be shown in Soviet Russia.

It was a sea change in the country’s political attitude towards art. The Iron Curtain would fall the following year. One of Bacon’s last great paintings is a meditation on the passage of time and the solitude of the human condition.

The suited figure on the left is based on press pictures of US president Woodrow Wilson as he was leaving the Treaty of Versailles negotiations in 1919; the right-hand panel was inspired by a photo of Leon Trotsky’s study after his assassination in 1940, and the figure in the centre resembles Bacon’s then partner John Edwards.

It comes up at Christie’s 20th/21st Century sale on March 1 with an estimate of $35m-$50m (€30.93m-€44.19m).




                                                                         The first panel of the Francis Bacon triptych is based on press pictures of US president Woodrow Wilson in 1919.






The clothes in Francis Bacon’s paintings are as fascinating as the subjects




A new exhibition at the RA examines Bacon’s relationship with man and beast, but it’s his

take on clothing that offers up a macabre surprise






Francis Bacon had a masterful and, as was his style, unnerving way of recreating clothes in his paintings. He would let dust gather around his London studio, a genius’ hovel in South Kensington that has graced a million art books and online moodboards a cramped explosion of paint, dark wood, ephemera, crusted brushes, stained mirrors and deep, dark feeling before scooping up the required amount, an unknowable amount, and mixing it in with the oil paints that he favoured over the years.

“That’s how, if you look closely at the paintings in person, the clothes in them have that slightly furry look,” says Michael Peppiatt over the phone, the author, art expert, historian and foremost authority on Bacon, who has curated the landmark new show at the RA, Francis Bacon: Man and Beast. “I remember him saying something about how he was able to paint a perfect flannel suit thanks to that dust… and he was right. He could. Over everything else he is he was just a marvellous painter. He let it speak. The actual grain of the paint comes over and speaks very directly to the eye.”

Spanning Bacon’s 50-year career, the show’s primary focus is on, so reads the RA’s description, “Bacon’s unerring fascination with animals: how it both shaped his approach to the human body and distorted it; how, caught at the most extreme moments of existence, his figures are barely recognisable as either human or beast.” “He looked for a more spontaneous and accurate representation of human behaviour in watching animals,” says Peppiat. “They went about their daily lives in a less inhibited fashion. They acted the way they acted, whereas humans disguise their true feelings.”

On a gloomy day in late January I stand inside the RA, in a room painted an ominous shade of murky green, in front of Figure Study 1, which Bacon finished in between 1945 and 1946. The background is a hazardous orange dripping with dark matter, while in the foreground a body, not quite human, is suffocated by a herringbone-weave coat. The description is morbid and wonderful “the body protrudes from the garment like a snake shedding its skin.” There is studio dust in there somewhere, turning the coat into something living and something decaying, The drape makes it look luxurious; the fray and disintegration around its edges make it look awful. I stare at it for 10 minutes, unmoving. I have to remind myself to blink.

“He was very concerned with clothing,” says Peppiatt, who first met Bacon while still a student at the French House, one of the artist’s regular Soho haunts, quickly becoming his closest confidant and, later on, posthumous biographer. “His studio was a tip, but he always had several bespoke suits hanging in cellophane. He was immaculate like that. He was keen on attracting people you see.” Peppiatt recalls the clothes that Bacon favoured while dashing around his seedy kingdom during his inspired and debauched heyday.

“There was the formal look: a proper suit with a button down shirt and he’d always wear a tie. A black silk knit tie, which he would rather loosely tie around his neck. It appeared to me at the time that there was just the one tie, but I suppose he had a rack full. He was very keen on smart boots, a good cashmere polo neck sweater and he had a taste for trench coats with epaulettes. He cut a swathe, certainly. He used to say, ‘I think the thing is to look ordinary, but better.’”

Unlike the man himself, who sought a certain pleasure and status in his clothes, the outfits in Bacon’s paintings often appear excruciating: a man-made simulacrum of the taught fur on a baboon or the bleeding skin stretched across one of his famous bulls. Suits appear often, constricting, swallowing their wearers whole. A leaden weight in the brushstrokes and in the fibres. George Dyer, Bacon’s lover and tragic muse, appears regularly in sombre charcoal tailoring, white shirt pulling at his neck as his features melt into a sort of primal agony; the suit conceals and constricts. Even the decadent purple and red velvets clad onto his screaming and rupturing popes burst from the canvas in the grotesque shades of an open sore.

“They are often about rather disquieting and brutal truths,” says Peppiatt of the works that he has compiled, “but they are nevertheless of a grand scale. He himself would like that, I think. His life played out on the stage like a kind of King Lear, or Macbeth, but I do think Francis would have really enjoyed the show. To be in the RA, which he never managed during his life, although he hasn’t been in touch, so I can’t guarantee it! He rolled around in the Soho gutter, there’s no doubt about that, but he was also a very grand person during his life. I can feel his presence here in this space and in these paintings.”

If you have a chance to visit, which I highly recommend you do, take a close look at the clothes. Not so close that a security guard puts you in a rear naked chokehold, but close enough that you can see the memory, the grain, of the South Kensington studio dust still present inside Francis Bacon’s tweeds, wools and perfectly-rendered flannel suits.





         “There was the formal look: a proper suit with a button down shirt and he’d always wear a tie. A black silk knit tie.”










20th/21st Century: London Evening Sale









FRANCIS BACON (1909-1992)  Triptych 1986-7



Lot 38  Estimate GBP 35,000,000—GBP 55,000,000


SOLD: £38,459,206



(i) signed, titled, inscribed and dated ‘Tryptich [sic] 1986-1987 Left Panel Francis Bacon’ (on the reverse)
(ii) signed, titled, inscribed and dated ‘Tryptich [sic] 1986-1987 Center Panel Francis Bacon’ (on the reverse)
(iii) signed, titled, inscribed and dated ‘tryptich [sic] 1986⁄1987 Right Panel Francis Bacon’ (on the reverse)

oil, pastel, aerosol paint and dry transfer lettering on canvas, in three parts each: 78 x 58in. (198 x 147.5cm.)
Executed in 1986-1987



Marlborough International Fine Art, Vaduz.
Acquired from the above by the present owner in 2007.



M. Leiris, Francis Bacon, Barcelona 1987, p. 128, no. 151 (illustrated in colour, pp. 120-121).
G. Auty, ‘Formal fallacy’ in The Spectator, October 1988 (installation view illustrated in colour, p. 39).
A. Sinclair, Francis Bacon His Life & Violent Times, New York 1993, pp. 291, 297.
W. Feaver, ‘Scrambled heads and Bacon’ in The Observer, 30 June 1996 (left hand panel illustrated, p. 12).
J-C Delpierre, ‘Francis Bacon Grand Maître’ in Beaux Art Magazine, no. 46, June 1996, no. 12 (illustrated in colour, p. 16).
D. Sylvester, Looking Back at Francis Bacon, London 2000, pp. 66 and 269, no. 95 (illustrated, p. 121).
Francis Bacon in Dublin, exh. cat., Dublin, Hugh Lane Municipal Gallery of Modern Art, 2000, p. 19.
L. Trucchi, Francis Bacon, Rome 2005, no. 16, p. 73 (illustrated in colour, p. 72; left hand panel illustrated in colour, p. 72).
M. Cappock, Francis Bacon’s Studio, London 2005, p. 98.
Francis Bacon: A Centenary Retrospective, exh. cat., London, Tate Britain, 2008, p. 218, no. 114 (illustrated in colour, p. 217; incorrectly dated ‘1987’).
M. Harrison (ed.), Francis Bacon: New Studies, Centenary Essays, Göttingen 2009, p. 60 (incorrectly dated ‘1986’).
J. Russell, Francis Bacon, London 2010, p. 203, no. 111 (illustrated, pp. 190-191).
M. Tonelli, Francis Bacon Le "Atmosfere” Letterarie, Rome 2014, p. 123, no. 42 (right hand panel illustrated, p. 123).
Francis Bacon: Late Paintings, exh. cat., New York, Gagosian Gallery, 2015, p. 135, no. 8 (illustrated in colour, p. 136).
M. Harrison and R. Daniels (eds.), Francis Bacon Catalogue Raisonné: Volume III 1958-71, London 2016, p. 640.
M. Harrison and R. Daniels (eds.), Francis Bacon Catalogue Raisonné: Volume IV 1971-92, London 2016, pp. 1318, 1322 and 1326, no. 87-01 (illustrated in colour, pp. 1323-1325; detail of right hand panel illustrated in colour, p. 1327).
D. Sylvester, The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, London 2016, p. 202 and 232, no. 131 (illustrated in colour, p. 202; central panel illustrated in colour, p. 203).
M. Boustany (ed.), Francis Bacon MB Art Foundation, Monaco 2017 (installation view illustrated, p. 93).
Y. Peyré, Francis Bacon or the measure of excess, Woodbridge 2020, p. 322 (illustrated in colour, p. 278; central panel illustrated in colour, p. 279; right hand panel illustrated in colour, p. 280).
M. Peppiatt, Francis Bacon: Studies for a Portrait, London 2021, pp. 42 and 240-249.
J. Birch, Bacon in Moscow, London 2022 (illustrated in colour, pp. 178-179).



New York, Marlborough Gallery Inc., Francis Bacon: Paintings of the Eighties, 1987, p. 44, no. 12 (Illustrated in colour, pp. 38-39; left hand panel illustrated in colour on the front cover).
Paris, Galerie Lelong, Francis Bacon: Peintures Récentes, 1987, no. 8 (illustrated in colour, unpaged).
Moscow, Central House of Artists, Tretyakov Gallery, Francis Bacon: Paintings, 1988, p. 68, no. 20 (illustrated in colour, pp. 66 – 68).
London, Marlborough Fine Art Ltd., Francis Bacon: Loan Exhibition in Celebration of his 80th Birthday, 1989, pp. 7 and 42,
no. 13 (central panel illustrated in colour on the front cover; illustrated in colour, pp. 32-34).
New York, Marlborough Gallery Inc., Francis Bacon Paintings, 1990, p. 38, no. 11 (illustrated in colour, pp. 28-30).
Lugano, Museo d’Arte Moderna della Città di Lugano, Francis Bacon, 1993, p. 163, no. 59 (illustrated, pp. 127 and 163; illustrated in colour, pp. 128-130).
Saint Etienne, Musée d’Art Moderne, Réalitiés Noires, 1994-1995.
Saint-Paul-de-Vence, Foundation Maeght,