Francis Bacon News
Post-War and Contemporary Art Evening Auction
Lot 16 A | Sale 14442 | 6 October 2017, London
Francis Bacon (1909 - 1992)
Study of Red Pope 1962. 2nd Version 1971
Estimate On Request
Study of Red Pope 1962. 2nd Version 1971
signed, titled and date 'Study of Red Pope 1962. 2nd version 1971 Francis Bacon' (on the reverse)
oil on canvas
78 x 58 1/8in. (198 x 147.5cm.)
Painted in 1971
Cataloguing & details
Artist's Resale Right ("Droit de Suite"). Artist's Resale Right Regulations 2006 apply to this lot, the buyer agrees to pay us an amount equal to the resale royalty provided for in those Regulations, and we undertake to the buyer to pay such amount to the artist's collection agent.
Marlborough Fine Art, Zurich.
Acquired directly from the above by the previous owner in February 1973.
Thence by descent to the present owner.
PROPERTY FROM AN IMPORTANT PRIVATE EUROPEAN COLLECTION
Trucchi, Francis Bacon, London 1976 (illustrated in colour, p. 150).
W. Schmied, Francis Bacon. Commitment and Conflict, Munich 1996, fig. 34, no. 18 (illustrated, p. 27 and illustrated in colour, p. 54).
Francis Bacon. Lo Sagrado y lo Profano, exh. cat., Valencia, IVAM Institut Valencia d'Art Modern, 2003-2004 (illustrated in colour, p. 31).
M. Harrison (ed.), Francis Bacon. Catalogue Raissoné: Volume III 1958-71, London 2016, p. 970, no. 71-04 (illustrated in colour, p. 971).
Paris, Galeries nationales du Grand Palais, Francis Bacon, 1971-1972, no. 107 (illustrated, p. 137). This exhibition later travelled to Dusseldorf, Kunsthalle.
‘In any one period, there are only a finite number of images with almost limitless connotations. In our time, along perhaps with Picasso’s Demoiselles d’Avignon, Duchamp’s Le Grand Verre and a Giacometti Femme debout, Bacon’s Popes are … a centrepiece of the whole of twentieth-century art’
‘A compact and chunky force of nature, with a vivid and highly unparsonical turn of phrase, [George Dyer] embodied a pent-up energy. As a spirit of mischief, touched at times by melancholia, he had been the subject, and the inspiration, of some of Bacon’s greatest images’
‘Not an hour goes by when I don’t think about George’
‘[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’
‘I was drinking with John Deakin, who had just done some photographs for me, and lots of others. George was down the far end of the bar and he came over and said, “You all seem to be having a good time. Can I buy you a drink?” And that’s how I met him. I might never have noticed him otherwise’
‘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 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’
‘I think [Velázquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X] is one of the greatest portraits that has ever been made, and I became obsessed by it. I buy book after book with this illustration in it of the Velázquez Pope, because it just haunts me, and it opens up all sorts of feelings and areas of – I was going to say – imagination, even in me’
‘It is true, of course, the Pope is unique. He’s put in a unique position by being the Pope, and therefore, like in certain great tragedies, he’s as though raised onto a dais on which the grandeur of this image can be displayed to the world’
‘You’re more conscious of the fact that nine-tenths of everything is inessential. What is called “reality” becomes so much more concentrated and can be summed up with so much less’
‘The tragic hero is necessarily somebody who is elevated above other men to begin with’
‘Bacon's space subverts our habit of seeing, abandoning perspective and breaking up the familiar appearance of our everyday surroundings ... All Bacon's spaces are conceived with human life in mind. Every corner of the space is related to a person, whose presence charges it with extreme tension. It is only through the figure that we really see the space and, in turn, only through the space that we learn to see the individual human being. That is its function. The purpose of space is the revelation of the human’
On 26 October 1971, the Grand Palais in Paris opened its landmark retrospective of Francis Bacon’s work. It was a career-defining moment for the artist, newly anointed ‘Britain’s greatest living painter’. Among the distinguished canvases exhibited was Study of Red Pope 1962. 2nd version 1971, painted earlier that year: a grand finale to his celebrated body of Papal portraits. In this rare masterpiece, for the first and only time in his oeuvre, Bacon had united his two greatest obsessions. Reworking the 1962 canvas Study from Innocent X, the artist staged a haunting encounter between the Pope and George Dyer – his great muse and lover. Tinged with ghostly pallor, Dyer’s spectral likeness was brought face to face with the pontiff, confronting his gaze like a mirrored reflection. Throughout the rooms of the Grand Palais, his visage loomed large, enshrined in the ardent brushwork of Bacon’s finest portraits. In the flesh, however, Dyer was painfully absent. Less than thirty-six hours earlier, he had been found dead in his hotel room, having taken his own life. As words of praise for Bacon filled the gallery, lauding his contribution to contemporary art, the artist did his best to conceal his grief. Unbeknownst to the eminent guests who admired the painting that day, it now stood as a tragic premonition of Dyer’s fateful end.
Unseen in public for forty-five years, Study of Red Pope 1962. 2nd version 1971 offers a deeply poignant conclusion to one of the twentieth-century’s most important bodies of work. Inspired by Diego Velázquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X, Bacon’s output of the 1950s and early 1960s had been dominated by visions of the Il Papa: a man tortured by the weight of his own authority. As the years progressed, his face was replaced by that of Dyer: an equally conflicted character, whose sharp, handsome exterior belied a troubled past. The tension that Bacon identified in the Papal condition – a combination of power and vulnerability – was one that he also saw in his beloved muse. In Study of Red Pope 1962. 2nd version 1971, the two figures are bound together like twisted alter-egos: icons of the spirit and the flesh – the sacred and profane – juxtaposed in the manner of a devotional diptych. Their faces are thickly worked with vigorous impasto, lit by streaks of lead white paint. Visceral tangles of marbled pigment writhe within the Pope’s cloaked body, extending from his torso in a single holographic sweep. A glowing, contrapuntal duet of green and cerulean strokes circles his form, whilst the crystalline blue of Dyer’s backdrop is tinged with faint residue of the pontiff’s scarlet palette. In contrast to the work’s 1962 predecessor, here Bacon offsets his dynamic painterly brushstrokes with flat, intersecting planes and passages of bare canvas, creating a stark amphitheatre of colour, geometry and formal abstraction. The cubic space frame that houses the Pope is flanked by two curved wing mirrors, producing a luminous tripartite screen that seems to anticipate the legendary ‘black triptychs’ painted in the wake of Dyer’s death. For both subjects, it was the end of an era. A cord hangs between them, as if – with a fatal swipe – their light might be extinguished at any moment.
Bacon’s Papal portraits are widely regarded as the paragon of his artistic enquiries. From the early screaming phantoms to silent, demented creatures that followed, Bacon repeatedly cast the Pope as a victim of his own status, tormented by his position as God’s messenger on Earth. ‘It is true, of course, the Pope is unique’, he explained. ‘He’s put in a unique position by being the Pope, and therefore, like in certain great tragedies, he’s as though raised onto a dais on which the grandeur of this image can be displayed to the world’ (F. Bacon, quoted in D. Sylvester, The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, London 1975, p. 26). Fascinated by Velázquez’s portrait, yet loathe to encounter it in the flesh, Bacon preferred to work from a printed reproduction of the image, deforming and remodelling its protagonist according to the impulses of his nervous system. His depictions of Dyer, too, were born of the same strategy, filtered through a reservoir of memories and photographs. Both figures, for Bacon, exemplified the magnificence and fragility of human existence, giving rise to portraits that were brutal and impassioned in equal measure. As the artist prepared for his exhibition at the Grand Palais – an accolade granted to no other living painter except Picasso – the present work acknowledged the dual space these subjects occupied in his psyche. The deadlock between them would be resolved in the subsequent Study of George Dyer, executed the following month, in which Bacon’s tragic muse usurps the pontiff from the centre of the composition. Together, these works represent the final images of Dyer painted during his lifetime.
GEORGE DYER: A TRAGIC PREMONITION
Though no-one could have predicted the dark shadow that would fall upon Bacon’s Parisian triumph, the Grand Palais retrospective was nonetheless a fitting tribute to Dyer’s role within his practice. As the exhibition made plain, his face had fundamentally redefined the parameters of twentieth-century portraiture. There was the early triptych Three Studies for Portrait of George Dyer (on pink ground), painted shortly after their first meeting. There was Portrait of George Dyer Riding a Bicycle: a masterpiece from 1966 now held in the Fondation Beyeler, Basel. Two Studies of George Dyer (Sara Hildén Art Museum, Tampere) and Portrait of George Dyer in a Mirror (Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid), both painted in 1968, were joined by numerous additional paintings of Dyer that collectively charted Bacon’s achievements of the 1960s. ‘In the lives of all of us there is a human being whom we least wish to lose’, wrote John Russell. ‘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’ (J. Russell, Francis Bacon, London 1992, p. 151). Dyer’s likeness would continue to haunt Bacon’s canvases for the rest of his career, most immediately in the powerful series of triptychs created in his memory. In these works – now held in institutions including the Fondation Beyeler and Tate, London – the artist made a fervent attempt at catharsis, pouring his grief and guilt into near-cinematic tableaux. Perhaps the present painting, with its prophetic overtones, lingered in his mind as he strove to exorcise his despair. Its curious tripartite screen, imprinted with Dyer’s image, would be transformed into vast, triple-panelled imaginings of his lover’s death.
Almost exactly eight years earlier, in the autumn of 1963, Bacon and Dyer had met for the first time: a now-legendary encounter that took place in a Soho pub. ‘I was drinking with John Deakin, who had just done some photographs for me, and lots of others’, recalled Bacon. ‘George was down the far end of the bar and he came over and said, “You all seem to be having a good time. Can I buy you a drink?” And that’s how I met him. I might never have noticed him otherwise’ (F. Bacon, quoted in M. Peppiatt, Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma, London 1996, p. 259). The two men quickly struck up a rapport, and over the next few years Dyer became Bacon’s lover, muse and dependent. A handsome man who took meticulous care of his appearance, he wore a uniform of clean-cut suits and narrow ties tightly knotted around the neck. Around thirty years old at the time, his distinctive good looks and classical proportions reminded Bacon of the lithe figure studies undertaken by his hero Michelangelo. Beneath Dyer’s debonair façade, however, lay an anxious, emotionally fraught character. Raised in the East End of London, he had fallen to petty theft at a young age, and was frequently crippled by a sense of purposelessness. His innate vulnerability, combined with his athletic, near-sculptural figure, provided Bacon with a fascinating double-edged subject. The tumultuous nature of their relationship – passionate and tempestuous – inspired a painterly dynamism that simultaneously deformed and caressed. As Michael Peppiatt has observed, ‘however great the liberties Bacon had taken in pulling apart and remaking the appearance of his other friends, with Dyer he reached a maximum intensity, not only paint pummelling his features into near-extinction but creating complex visual conceits, brilliant puns on seeing unlike anything he had attempted before’ (M. Peppiatt, Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma, London 1996, p. 261).
Throughout Bacon’s oeuvre, Dyer was frequently portrayed as a doubled image, captured in motion, in speech, or in a mirror. He was, as Russell put it, ‘a compact and chunky force of nature’, who fundamentally ‘embodied pent-up energy’ (J. Russell, Francis Bacon, London 1993, pp. 160-65). For Bacon, Dyer was eternally conflicted: a man whose inner turmoil was palpable in every aspect of his carefully-poised exterior. Punctuated by sharp mood swings and fits of emotion, their relationship grew increasingly fractured towards the end of the 1960s – a source of great sadness to the artist. It is perhaps significant, then, that in the present work Dyer undergoes something of a transformation. He is no longer ‘pummelled’ and ‘pulled apart’, but rigid, clear and still as a statue. His features, so often distorted beyond recognition, are unmistakably his own. He is consigned to a reflection: a spectral apparition, who peers into the composition as if through an outside window. Under the watchful gaze of the Pope, he is reduced to a funereal shadow of his former self, positioned – as it were – beyond the veil. For many years, Bacon had acted as something of a father figure to Dyer, loving and nurturing in spite of his mercurial tendencies. Here, as their strained relationship reached its climax, he is brought to judgment before the ultimate patriarch. Though the subsequent Study of George Dyer restores him to muscular, carnal glory, the present work’s macabre vision is eerily prophetic. ‘Not an hour goes by when I don’t think about George’, Bacon confessed; ‘… one of the terrible things about so-called love, certainly for an artist, is the destruction’ (F. Bacon, quoted in M. Gale and C. Stephens (eds.), Francis Bacon, exh. cat., London, Tate Britain, 2009, p. 262). In Study of Red Pope 1962. 2nd version 1971, Bacon gives voice to his own fear: that Dyer, for all his flaws, might one day be no more than a pale, motionless memory.
PAINTING IL PAPA: BACON’S LAST POPE
Bacon’s meeting with Dyer in 1963 coincided with the arrival of a new set of subjects. Whilst the 1960s would be marked by portraits of his closest friends – a colourful cast of Soho characters who congregated in Wheeler’s restaurant, the Colony Room Club and other local haunts – the previous two decades had been dominated by another obsession: the head of the Catholic Church. Though seemingly far-removed from his worldly circles of artists, models and bar owners, Bacon’s depictions of the Pope fundamentally established the conceptual scope of his subsequent portrait practice. For Bacon, the Supreme Pontiff – a man bound eternally to his station – embodied in extreme terms the existential anxieties of all mankind. Fascinated by men of power, Bacon was attracted to the tragic combination of authority and entrapment latent in the Pope’s status. Taking to task the ultimate establishment figure – immortalised by the Old Masters and deified by the media – Bacon transformed the Pope into a vessel for the woes of post-War society, saddled with its fears and denatured by its neuroses. We exist but ‘for a second’, Bacon once claimed, ‘brushed off like flies on a wall’ (F. Bacon, quoted in D. Sylvester, The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, London 1990, p. 133). By stripping away the trappings of Papal infallibility to reveal the complex, fragile spirit beneath, Bacon sought to expose the fleeting nature of existence – a state that, in many portraits, erupted into a primal scream of terror. In his depictions of the Pope, created over nearly twenty years, Bacon launched a painterly interrogation of the human condition that would guide his portraits of Lucian Freud, Isabel Rawsthorne, Henrietta Moraes, Muriel Belcher – and, perhaps more than any other, George Dyer.
A select handful of Bacon’s Popes were modelled on processional photographs of Pope Pius XII, who reigned from the outbreak of the Second World War until 1958. However, it was Velázquez’s time-honoured Portrait of Pope Innocent X that undoubtedly had the biggest impact on his psyche. Bacon had first discovered the image in reproduction around 1946, and immediately developed what he would later describe as a ‘schoolboy crush’ on the image. ‘I think it is one of the greatest portraits that has ever been made, and I became obsessed by it’, Bacon explained. ‘I buy book after book with this illustration in it of the Velázquez Pope, because it just haunts me, and it opens up all sorts of feelings and areas of – I was going to say – imagination, even in me’ (F. Bacon, quoted in D. Sylvester, The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, London 1990, p. 24). Bacon’s attempts to unmask the Pope’s sanctity were in many ways born of the profoundly human tensions he perceived within Velázquez’s portrait: a momentary glimpse of man’s raw animalism, fundamentally at odds with the holy Papal office. As photographs of Bacon’s studio have revealed, his various reproductions of the painting rubbed shoulders with images of wartime dictators and henchmen, testifying to his preoccupation with the fine line between power and corruption. Bacon characteristically preferred to work from secondary sources rather than encountering his muses first-hand: a method, he felt, which allowed him to transcend literal appearance and drill down to the existential core of his subjects. ‘I think it’s the slight remove from the fact, which returns me onto the fact more violently’, he told David Sylvester. ‘Through the photographic image I find myself beginning to wander into the image and unlock what I think of its reality more than I can by looking at it’ (F. Bacon, quoted in D. Sylvester, The Brutality of Fact: Interview with Francis Bacon, London 1987, p. 30). Created without ever having seen Velázquez’s original painting, Bacon’s Papal portraits were among the first works on which this method was truly brought to bear.
Building on the theme of crucifixion that ran throughout his early work, Bacon’s initial Popes took the form of opened-mouthed ghouls, pinned down in cages and shuttered into oblivion. From the inaugural Head VI of 1949 (Arts Council Collection, Southbank), through the first major trio of Popes in 1951, to the seminal Study after Velázquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X of 1953 (Des Moines Art Center, Iowa) and the ensuing series of eight Studies for a Portrait, Bacon’s figures actively sought to escape their condition, depicted as writhing beings whose cries detonated the structural integrity of the picture plane. By the early 1960s, these ethereal figures had contorted into deformed, demented creatures, incapacitated and silenced by their own paranoia. The six Studies for a Pope of 1961 present tensile, muted figures, rooted to their chairs is if bound by straitjackets. Study from Innocent X represents an extension of this series, and stands among the last Popes Bacon produced before the present work. Collectively, these tormented beings have been variously interpreted as self-images, much in the way that many of the German Expressionists cast themselves as prophets, priests and martyrs. In this regard, Bacon’s decision to revisit the Pope in 1971 – and to pair him with the muse that succeeded him – takes on a new degree of poignancy. Much like Dyer himself, the Pope is flattened into stark, planar existence, stripped of his former physical substance. The figures confront each other like paintings on a wall or images on a television screen; the Papal throne becomes a canvas – or, to follow the filmic analogy, an illusory digital space. Painted as Bacon prepared to place his life’s work under scrutiny in the cavernous chambers of the Grand Palais, the Pope becomes a projection of his own anxieties. For the first time in his oeuvre, Bacon’s pontiff is watched – viewed – by another. In the grand finale to the series, the Pope stands as a symbol of art and image-making itself, ‘raised onto a dais’ before the eyes of the world.
1962-1971: PAINTERLY EVOLUTIONS
By virtue of its direct link to an earlier work, Study of Red Pope 1962. 2nd version 1971 offers a unique insight into the evolution of Bacon’s painterly language during his most important decade. It was during this period that the diverse strands pursued during the 1940s and 1950s began to coalesce into a powerful visual lexicon: one of visceral, fleshy animations, in which thick twists of pigment brought the raw essence of his subjects, writhing and twitching, to the very surface of the canvas. What Bacon sought, as he later put it, was ‘a concentration of reality and a shorthand of sensation’: one in which the interior pulsations of a person were made visible in the depiction of their external features (F. Bacon, quoted in ‘Interview with Melvin Bragg’, South Bank Show, LWT, London 1985). The pain, fear and paranoia he had excavated from the sacred image of the Pope paved the way for his familiar portraits of the 1960s, in which currents of lust, rivalry, devotion and sexual intimacy coursed through their painterly veins. As the 1970s dawned, however, Bacon’s bid to distil sensation to its purest form led him to cast a reductive light on his working methods. Gradually, the human body was relocated to stark, airless vacuums: clinical geometric chambers where Bacon’s convulsing anatomies could be placed under deeper examination. ‘You’re more conscious of the fact that nine-tenths of everything is inessential’, he explained. ‘What is called “reality” becomes so much more concentrated and can be summed up with so much less’ (F. Bacon, quoted in Francis Bacon, exh. cat., Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, 2009, p. 237). The swirling painterly vortex of Study from Innocent X, rendered with thick intuitive streaks of impasto, is thus boiled down to a series of deeply saturated colour fields, with vast swathes of canvas left bare. All sense of carnal motion is reserved for the figures’ faces and limbs, which swarm with activity like cells under a microscope.
This sense of zooming in on his subjects is amplified by the linear space-frame within which the figures are contained. A constant in Bacon’s oeuvre since his earliest Popes, the cubic structure was conceived as a perceptual tool, often compared to the Chinagraph marks used in photography to delineate areas for enlargement. ‘I cut down the scale of the canvas by drawing in these rectangles’, he said, in order to ‘concentrate the image down. Just to see it better’ (F. Bacon, quoted in D. Sylvester, Looking Back at Francis Bacon, London 2000, p. 40). In his works of the 1950s, this device masqueraded as a ‘cage’ of sorts – comparable to those of Alberto Giacometti – in which his subjects’ inner existential turmoil was brought into focus. Whilst this was certainly true of Study for Innocent X, the present work offers a more nuanced treatment of the motif. The sides of the cube that flank the Papal throne are transformed into mirrors, creating a kind of folded screen that foreshadows the sequential, filmic quality of the later triptychs. The figure’s interior dialogue is played out less in the force of the surrounding brushwork than in the imagery projected onto these planes – namely, the lingering spectre of Dyer himself. The edges of the frame not only delineate the physical presence of the subject, but ultimately stand as a metaphor for the architecture of Bacon’s own subconscious – the only space in which his two tragic heroes had ever coexisted. A red ellipse hovers at the centre of the composition – a structure that increasingly came to dominate his later oeuvre. Frequently read as a signifier for the artist’s all-seeing eye, here it confronts the viewer as an unblinking, bloodshot lens, boring into the depths of the psyche. As Bacon’s dialogue with Velázquez becomes a dialogue with himself, visions past, present and future combine. The result is not only a poignant meeting of muses, but a sharp metaphysical commentary on the complex relationship between artist, subject and viewer.
cost of Bacon
he cost of Bacon
MELANIE GERLIS | THE ART MARKET | FINANCIAL TIMES | SEPTEMBER 15 2017
Francis Bacon's Study of Red Pope 1962. 2nd Version (1971), to be auctioned at Christie's
One of the most heart-wrenching paintings by Francis Bacon comes to Christie’s next month (October 6). Study of Red Pope 1962. 2nd Version was unveiled at the artist’s 1971-72 retrospective at the Grand Palais, Paris. Just 36 hours before, George Dyer — Bacon’s lover and inspiration, who features spectre-like in the painting — had committed suicide in their hotel room.
painting has not been on public view since. “It’s truly and simply art history,”
enthuses Francis Outred, Christie’s chairman of postwar and contemporary art.
Christie’s will offer the work with a £60m-£80m estimate, which would make it the priciest work to sell in Europe this year. It could become the most expensive painting ever sold at auction in London. Accounting for inflation, this record is currently held by Rubens’ The Massacre of the Innocents, which sold for £45m (hammer price) in 2002, the equivalent of £67m in today’s money.
The European seller of the Bacon has turned down Christie’s offer to guarantee the work, according to the auction house.
'Lost' Francis Bacon
painting of the Pope and George Dyer could set new auction record
'Lost' Francis Bacon painting of the Pope and George Dyer could set new auction record
ANITA SINGH | ARTS AND ENTERTAINMENT EDITOR | THE TELEGRAPH | 15 SEPTEMBER 2017
Christie's staff hang Francis Bacon's Study of Red Pope 1962. 2nd Version 1971
A ‘lost’ painting by Francis Bacon could become the most expensive art work ever sold in Europe when it goes under the hammer next month.
Carrying an estimate in the region of £60 million, Study of Red Pope 1962. 2nd version 1971 unites two subjects that obsessed Bacon during his career: his lover and muse, George Dyer, and the figure of Pope Innocent X.
The canvas has been in a private collection for the past 45 years and never loaned. It was exhibited at the Bacon retrospective at the Grand Palais in Paris in 1971, then in Dusseldorf the following year, before disappearing from public view.
The painting foretells a tragedy. Bacon met Dyer, a young, East End crook, in a Soho pub in 1963 and their relationship was tempestu
He completed the work in April 1971, to be unveiled at the retrospective in October. Dyer accompanied him to Paris, but the artist had little time to spend with him in the run-up to the show.
Two days before the opening, Dyer took an overdose and was found dead in his hotel bathroom.
A grief-stricken Bacon carried on with the show. He said later: “If I’d have stayed with him rather than going to see about the exhibition, he would be here now. But I didn’t and he’s dead.”
The painting will be sold at Christie’s, London, on October 6. Christie’s believes it could surpass the European record for a work of art sold at auction: £65 million for Giacometti’s Walking Man bronze in 2010. The hammer price for that work was £58 million, with the final figure including buyer’s premium.
If the Bacon painting achieves its £60 million estimate, it will fetch around £67 million with premium added.
Francis Outred, Christie’s head of post-war and contemporary art, hailed the painting as “quite simply art history”. He said: “It is a tragic premonition which unites Bacon’s two greatest muses, the Pope and George Dyer, for the first and only time.”
Francis Bacon and George Dyer on the Orient Express in 1964
Katharine Arnold, senior specialist at Christie’s, said: “Bacon described himself as almost having a boyhood crush on the painting by Velazquez. And he definitely had a crush, or something more powerful, on George Dyer.
“The painting is very intense. There must have been friction in their relationship at this point, and I’m sure the pressure in the lead-up to the exhibition must have had an impact on Dyer as well.
“There are two sash cords in the picture, as if to turn off a light - it’s almost prophetic. It has this sense of the dramatic. The wall on the right looks blue on first glance, but then you see the reflection of the red.”
The painting was acquired by the family of the present owner in 1973. Arnold said: “London in October feels like the right time to show a masterpiece.”
It will not be the most expensive Bacon painting ever sold. That record is held by Three Studies of Lucian Freud, a triptych that went for £89 million in New York in 2014.
Pope painting by Francis
Bacon to go on sale after 45 years hidden away
Pope painting by Francis Bacon to go on sale after 45 years hidden away
Estimated to be worth £60m, the painting depicts a slumping pope whose formless body is capped by a drunk's red nose
JONATHAN JONES | THE GUARDIAN | FRIDAY 15 SEPTEMBER 2017
Francis Bacon’s landmark painting, Study of Red Pope 1962. 2nd version 1971, at Christie’s in London.
The pope’s body is a spiralling heap of sausages wrapped in white and pink robes. Go closer, and even stranger physical images arise: brown smears over his fleshy hands look disturbingly faecal. You could almost believe it, if this were not a £60m – or more – masterpiece soon to go on sale in the opulent setting of Christie’s London auction house.Francis Bacon’s Study of Red Pope 1962. 2nd Version 1971 is as close to a new painting by the great bohemian painter who died in 1972 as we are ever likely to see.
The painting was first exhibited in Paris in 1971, six months after Bacon finished it, and was shown in Düsseldorf the following year. Since then it has been locked away by a private collector, who never lent it or showed it.
The gold-framed explosion of velvety red and rose on raw beige canvas has been hidden away for 45 years, said Jussi Pylkkänen, the president of Christie’s.
Pylkkänen will be auctioning this choice cut of raw artistic beef in person early next month, when the world’s art collectors converge on London for the Frieze art fair.
Bacon painted Study of Red Pope 1962. 2nd Version 1971 – probably not his best title – at the most intense moment of his life. It was the best of times and the worst of times for the Irish-born artist. He was about to put on a massive one-man exhibition at the Grand Palais in Paris. As a francophile who was friends with Paris intellectuals including the surrealist Michel Leiris, he cared deeply about how he would be received there.
Yet, Pylkkänen said, Bacon faced a problem. He wanted to include his renowned 1962 painting Study for Innocent X but its owner refused to lend it. With just six months to go before the most important exhibition of his life, Bacon shut himself in his cramped studio at 7 Reece Mews, Kensington to create a new version of a masterpiece.
He was facing a personal as well as artistic crisis. As Bacon painted, his relationship with George Dyer, the small-time East End criminal who was the love of his life, was getting ever more futile. Dyer had descended into an alcoholic malaise, unable to live as Bacon did in a giddily creative permanent champagne high. He was vanishing from Bacon’s life, but invades this painting.
As the pope squirms like a giant silk-clad turd, sitting not on a papal throne but a 1970s swivel chair, the glass booth that encloses him morphs into a mirror in which he sees the figure of George Dyer. This is not the decaying man Dyer had become by 1971. It looks more like the handsome, well-dressed young thug he was when Bacon first met him in a pub in 1963. Wearing a smart suit and tie, his hand elegantly clenched in a proud fist, Dyer is upright, strong and a bit cocky.
Is the slumping pope whose formless body is capped by a drunk’s red nose in fact a portrait of Dyer drunk, looking at a last vision of his former self?
Pylkkänen thinks Bacon was working at an artistic and emotional peak when he painted this furious bloody mary cocktail of artistic ambition and private sorrow.
“There’s something about it that tells me – ‘I’m going to paint a great picture for this show, the last of my popes, with my muse George Dyer in it,’’’ he says.
Bacon succeeded, at least artistically. The exhibition at the Grand Palais would be the greatest triumph of Bacon’s career, raising his reputation to the sublime level it has held ever since. Yet as Bacon got ready for the opening, Dyer killed himself with a drug overdose in their hotel room. Notoriously, there was a conspiracy of silence for two days so the death wouldn’t spoil Bacon’s vernissage.
“We’re talking about £60m,” says Pylkkänen. That’s actually quite a bit less than Bacon’s record of £89.3m for Three Studies of Lucian Freud, so the estimate may be exceeded if bidders get excited enough by the painting’s intense combination of aesthetic and human drama.
“It’s got all the elements that collectors are looking for,” says Pylkkänen.
The president of Christie’s is by definition a good salesman – but his excitement is justified. This modern Baroque marvel proves Bacon was the Caravaggio of the 20th century.
Francis Bacon Pope Portrait
Resurfaces After 50 Years at Christie's London
Francis Bacon Pope Portrait Resurfaces After 50 Years at Christie's London
The rediscovered painting measures just 26 by 20 inches, is estimated to sell for £10 million
CHRISTIE'S | ART MARKET | ARTLYST | 6 SEPTEMBER 2017
Francis Bacon, Head with Raised Arm (1955)
A portrait by the British artist Francis Bacon which has not been seen in public for over 55 years is to be sold at Christie’s Post-War and Contemporary Art Evening Auction, a highlight of London’s Frieze Week auctions. Head with Raised Arm (1955, estimate: £7,000,000 – £10,000,000) will be unveiled for the first time in over half a century as part of the sale.
One of only two known Papal paintings of that size, while most of Bacon’s 50 Pope paintings are inspired by Velasquez, only nine relate to the incumbent Pope, Pius X11. Bacon had a photograph of Pius being carried on his throne through St Peter’s pinned to his studio wall next to images of wartime dictators.
Last exhibited in 1962 at the Galleria Civica d’Arte Moderna, Turin, the work was acquired by the present owners the following year. It has remained hidden from public view ever since. The work’s location was listed as ‘unknown’ in the most recent version of the catalogue raisonné published last year by Martin Harrison. Riddled with quiet introspection and human tension, it belongs to a group of nine surviving paintings depicting the then incumbent, Pope Pius XII. With four held in museum collections, and a further on permanent loan, Bacon’s portraits of the living Pope are among his most profound. The work will be on view from 8 September, Christie’s Rockefeller Center, New York; 18 September, Christie’s Hong Kong; and 30 September 2017 at Christie’s King Street as part of the Post War and Contemporary Art Evening Auction that will take place on the 6 October 2017.
Francis Outred, Chairman and Head of Post-War and Contemporary Art EMERI: “Bacon’s Head with Raised Arm poses the question that would haunt Bacon for the duration of his career: how to paint the human figure in the age of photography. The camera’s ability to cast fiction as truth resonated with the fundamental tension that Bacon identified in religious and political figureheads: a conflict between public image and innate animal instinct. Evoking the works of Eadwaerd Muybridge, as well as anticipating Gerhard Richter’s blurred photo-paintings of the following decade, Head with Raised Arm speaks directly to this theme. Pius was the only living Pope that Bacon would ever look to capture and by hinting at the transience of a figure immortalized through the camera lens, Bacon lifts the veil on his humanity. Illustrated in the first catalogue raisonne created by Ronald Alley with Francis Bacon in 1964 and listed as ‘whereabouts unknown’ in the most recent version by Martin Harrison in (2016), this is a landmark moment, marking the reappearance of a major Bacon portrait after more than 50 years.”
The Pope’s face and arm flicker like moving images caught on camera, animated by a veil of rapid hairline striations. Combed vertically with a fine brush over layers of colour, the work demonstrates Bacon’s dialogue with photography in his bid to capture what he termed ‘the trail of the human presence’. Rare for its closely-cropped depiction of the pontiff’s head and shoulders, the present work confronts its subject on a piercing, intimate scale. It is one of only two Popes executed in Bacon’s jewellike 24-by-20-inch format, aligning it with his first small portrait triptych of 1953. Elected to the papacy in 1939, Pius’s reign had spanned the Second World War, famously inciting accusations of silence in the face of atrocity. As the Church and media sought to uphold his infallibility, the artist cast him as a fragile, flawed being, tortured by the weight of his grand station.
Pursued over nearly two decades, and numbering more than fifty canvases, Bacon’s Papal portraits are widely regarded as his finest achievements. These works were his first and most significant existential enquiries, and stand today among the foremost images of the twentieth century. ‘It’s true, of course, the Pope is unique’, he explained. ‘He’s put in a unique position by being the Pope, and therefore, like in certain great tragedies, he’s as though raised onto a dais on which the grandeur of this image can be displayed to the world’ (F. Bacon, quoted in D. Sylvester, The Brutality of Fact, London 1990, p. 26).
A "centrepiece of the of the whole of 20th-century art": rediscovered Francis Bacon piece to be auctioned at Christie's
BY COLIN GLEADELL | LUXURY | ART | THE TELEGRAPH | 4 SEPTEMBER 2017
Francis Bacon, Head with Raised Arm (1955)
A rediscovered painting by Francis Bacon is to be shown for the first time in over 50 years at next month’s contemporary art sales in London. The 1955 painting of Pope Pius X11 seated on a golden throne, his hand raised in some enigmatic gesture, was last exhibited in 1962 and sold the following year in Turin. Since then it has been locked away in a very private collection.
Even the extensive, 10-year research conducted by art historian, Martin Harrison for the catalogue raisonne of all the artist’s works, published last year, could not uncover its whereabouts and lists the painting, Head with Raised Arm, as ‘location unknown.’ It is the only one of Bacon's 584 paintings which Harrison could not locate. Christie’s is withholding the identity of the seller, but speculation will be centred around the descendants of Italian collectors, such as film producer, Carlo Ponti, or car manufacturer, Gianni Agnelli, who bought examples of Bacon’s work in Turin at that time.
Bacon’s Papal portraits are considered his finest achievements. They are, writes his biographer, Michael Peppiatt, "not only the centrepiece of all his paintings of the 1950s, but a centrepiece of the whole of 20th-century art."
They began after he saw a reproduction of Velazquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X in 1946 and became obsessed with it, attracted by the idea that an all-powerful religious leader could also be a tragic figure, terrified by the human situation.
Amazingly, he never saw the original, but bought a photograph of it to work from. One of the series, a 76-inch tall Study for Innocent X, sold in 2007 for a then record £26.6 million. The buyer was thought to be shipping heir, Philip Niarchos.
The rediscovered painting measures just 26 by 20 inches, which accounts for the lower £10 million estimate, but is rare - one of only two known Papal paintings of that size. And, while most of Bacon’s 50 Pope paintings are inspired by Velasquez, only nine relate to the incumbent Pope, Pius X11. Bacon had a photograph of Pius being carried on his throne through St Peter’s pinned to his studio wall next to images of wartime dictators.
While his Velazquez inspired paintings are rent with the anguish of a scream, his Pius paintings express a more repressed anxiety. When this was painted, Pius was extremely ill, suffering terrible nightmares and hallucinations. Hardly surprising for a pontiff who had to negotiate Nazism, speak out against persecution and protect the Vatican at the same time.
The Post War & Contemporary Art auction will be held at Christie's London (8 King Street, St. James's , SW1Y 6QT) on October 6th at 7pm.
Spanish police recover three stolen Francis Bacon paintings
JENNIFER O'BRIEN | IRELAND REPORTER | THE TIMES | JULY 21 2017
Bacon, who was born in Dublin in 1909, became one of the best-known surrealist artists of his era
Three paintings by Francis Bacon that were stolen from a Madrid apartment have been recovered by Spanish police.
The works were three of five that were taken in a robbery in 2015. The five are estimated to be worth more than €25 million.
Spanish police confirmed that ten people were arrested during the investigation into the robbery at the home of José Capelo, a friend of Bacon’s, who had inherited the paintings after the artist’s death in 1992.
The burglars also made off with a safe containing jewels from the house. A Spanish police statement said that the three works were recovered after a tip-off from a London team specialising in tracking down missing art. Police offered no further details about which paintings had been recovered, or where they were discovered.
In May 2016, police arrested and bailed seven suspects over the stolen works. Three more suspects were arrested in January after police raided homes in Madrid and seized arms, safe-cracking manuals and oxy-fuel cylinders used for cutting metal.
Bacon, who was born in Dublin in 1909, famously had no formal training as a painter, but became one of the best-known surrealist artists of his era.
He drew inspiration from the old masters for his work, in particular Diego Velázquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X which Bacon used as the basis for his own series of screaming popes.
His expressionist-surrealist works, many of which centred around imagery of wounded and traumatised humanity in the postwar era, remain hugely sought after.
In November 2013, his painting, Three Studies of Lucian Freud, sold for €122 million at auction, breaking the record for the highest price paid for an artwork.
It was succeeded 18 months later with the sale of Les Femmes d’Algers, by Pablo Picasso, which sold for €153 million.
Modern Master Paintings Cause Legal Pile-Up in NY
ADAM KLASFELD | COURTHOUSE NEWS SERVICE | MANHATTAN (CN) | 14 AUGUST 2017
Auctioned two years ago for $16 million, British painter Francis Bacon’s Study for Head of Isabel Rawsthorne and George Dyer lies at the heart of a legal battle in Manhattan.
Christie’s described the painting as one of only 10 diptychs that the Dublin-born Bacon painted before he died at 82 in 1992.
The auction house said the piece "commemorates two of the artist’s most profound relationships: with his lover and muse, George Dyer, and his lifelong friend and confidante, the artist Isabel Rawsthorne."
At the center of the new lawsuit is a wealthy Chinese businessman who bought two famous artists’ paintings he could not afford.
Zhang Chang bid more than 12.1 million British pounds for Bacon's work at the June 30, 2015, auction in London.
Then on Nov. 16, 2016, Zhang agreed to shell out another $24 million for German artist Gerhard Richter’s Düsenjäger (Jet Fighter) at Phillips’ auction house in New York.
Both purchases inspired lawsuits in New York County Supreme Court.
This order inspired another lawsuit by Lin San, another Chinese citizen, who claims he loaned Zhang the money for the Bacon art.
Mr. Zhang paid Christie's for the purchase over time, using funds loaned by Mr. Lin for this purpose in accordance with a loan agreement between them executed in June 2015," the 9-page complaint states. "Those loans from Mr. Lin first began in June 2015, and continued through 2017.
Lin says Zhang agreed to transfer the painting to him because he was not able to repay the loans.
Lin on Thursday filed a petition to intervene in Phillips Auctioneers v. Chang, saying the painting is rightfully his.
"At the time of this supplemental agreement in February 2017, Mr. Lin was unaware of any dispute between Mr. Zhang and Phillips, or that Mr. Zhang allegedly owed Phillips any money," his complaint states.
Christie’s and Gagosian are not named in the petition, which lists Phillips as the sole respondent. Phillips declined to comment.
Lin is represented by New York-based attorney Gerald Novack.
Spanish police recover stolen Francis Bacon paintings after tip-off from the Art Loss Register
Three Francis Bacon artworks stolen in Madrid in 2015 have been recovered by Spanish police near Barcelona.
LAURA CHESTERS | ANTIQUES TRADE GAZETTE | THE ART MARKET WEEKLY | 24 JULY 2017
This portrait is one of the five Francis Bacon artworks stolen in Madrid.
The Spanish police have now recovered three of the five works.
The paintings were seized following a tip-off from art database firm Art Loss Register (ALR). The three artworks were among five Bacon pictures taken in June 2015 alongside jewellery and other objects from the belongings of Spanish banker José Capelo, who was a friend of the Dublin-born artist.
Last year the ALR was contacted by an individual in Sitges, a resort to the southwest of Barcelona, who requested a check against its database of one of the paintings.
The artwork was discovered to have been stolen, having been recorded as so at the ALR after Interpol issued the alert in 2015.
ALR then contacted the Spanish police to alert them.In a statement, the Spanish national police said the email from the individual to ALR contained unpublished photographs of the artworks taken after the theft. With these, it was possible to find the specific model of camera that the photographs were taken with. The police traced it to a camera rental company and then the lessee of the photographic equipment. This information led the police to the suspected thieves and eventually to the stolen artworks.
Ten arrests have now been made related to the case.
The ALR’s director of recoveries and general counsel, James Ratcliffe, said: “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.”
Three Francis Bacon works stolen in Madrid recovered by Spanish police
Paintings were seized following a tip-off from the Art Loss Register
by GARETH HARRIS | THE ART NEWSPAPER | 21 JULY 2017
Cecil Beaton, Francis Bacon in His Studio (1960).
Gelatin silver print with paint from Francis Bacon's studio on the recto and verso.
police say that they have recovered three works by Francis Bacon that were
stolen from a private residence in Madrid in June 2015. Five works by the
Dublin-born artist were removed during the raid.
According to the BBC, the three unidentified works, which belong to Bacon’s acquaintance José Capelo, were recovered following a tip-off from the Art Loss Register, the London-based stolen art database. The UK organisation was contacted by an individual in Sitges who wanted to verify one of the works. Spanish police did not respond to further enquiries.
"The return of the pictures is testament to the benefits of international cooperation between the private sector and law enforcement agencies. That these pictures have now been recovered through the skill of the Spanish police, after the Art Loss Register had identified them, and following the circulation of details of the loss via Interpol, is a perfect example of the value of such collaboration," says James Ratcliffe, director of Recoveries & General Counsel at the Art Loss Register.
Ten people have so far been detained in connection with the robbery; seven arrests were made in Madrid last year and three more people were arrested in January.
Bacon’s triptych, Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer (1963), the first portrait of the artist’s longtime lover, fetched $51.8m at Christie’s New York in May.
Beyeler to reunite Giacometti and Bacon
Swiss museum to stage show on the artists, who first met in the early 1960s, in time for Art Basel in 2018
MARTIN BAILEY | SWITZERLAND, SPECIAL REPORTS | THE ART NEWSPAPER | 13 JUNE 2017
Alberto Giacometti and Francis Bacon at the Tate Gallery, London, in 1965.
Giacometti and Bacon will be the stars of the Fondation Beyeler’s main exhibition next year, which is due to coincide with Art Basel 2018. The show is being organised by the Fondation Beyeler’s curator, Ulf Küster, Catherine Grenier, the director of the Fondation Giacometti, and Michael Peppiatt, an expert on Bacon and Giacometti.
Peppiatt promises that “the sheer visual excitement of two great 20th-century masters” will make this a major show. Discussions are taking place about a second venue for the Bacon-Giacometti exhibition after Basel (29 April-2 September 2018), possibly in the US.
Peppiatt sees strong parallels between the art and lives of the two artists. Both were strongly influenced by Surrealism and worked in a figurative style at a time when abstraction was “becoming louder”. They were existentialists, avid readers, deeply affected by the Second World War and lived in chaos. With huge drive, both proved to be survivors.
Peppiatt says that the two men first met in Paris in the early 1960s: “Bacon told me that he had gone up to Giacometti in a café in St Germain, probably Les Deux Magots or Flore, to say he admired his work.”
Swiss-born Alberto Giacometti (1901-66) was eight years older than the UK artist Francis Bacon (1909-92). They met again a few years later, probably through their mutual friend Isabel Rawsthorne, who was Giacometti’s lover and also modelled for both artists. Peppiatt says that on one occasion the two artists stayed up all night talking. They remained friends until Giacometti’s death in 1966.
The artists had two motifs in common: the scream and the cage. Both used a cage-like device in their compositions to create space and perspective and to concentrate attention on the central figure. Giacometti led the way, influencing his younger contemporary. Bacon once introduced his friend Daniel Farson to Giacometti, saying: “This is the man who has influenced me more than anyone.” There are, of course, also considerable differences in their work. “They were both X-raying their figures, but whereas Giacometti was stick-like in his depictions, Bacon was decidedly fleshy,” Peppiatt says.
Works by the two artists will be intermingled at the Fondation Beyeler. The majority of the Giacometti loans are to come from the Fondation Giacometti, with works by Bacon coming from a wide range of lenders, including a number of Swiss owners.
Francis Bacon painting Hits $51.8 Bid
OLIVIA O'MAHONY, EDITORIAL ASSISTANT | IRISH AMERICA | 28 MAY 2017
Francis Bacon’s Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer, 1964, which sold for $51.8 million in May.
A triptych painting of George Dyer, the lover and muse of Irish-born figurative artist Francis Bacon, sold for $51.8 million at a Christie’s auction for contemporary works in May. The painting, once owned by children’s author Roahl Dahl, a close friend of Bacon’s, spent the last 25 years in the private collection of French actor Francis Lombrail and was originally slated to reach up to $70 million with bidders. However, a substantial fall on Wall Street at the time of the auction resulted in a notably cooled demand.
The piece, Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer, was painted in 1963, one year after the two men met, and is the first of almost 40 works inspired by their relationship. One of only five triptychs painted of Dyer, it is representative of the explosive vitality of new romance and was completed during the period of Bacon’s greatest satisfaction in his personal and professional lives. A petty thief with a yearning to learn his true place in the world, Dyer was 33 years Bacon’s junior and sought meaning through his role as muse. When their dynamic as creatives and lovers alike began to crumble, Dyer fell into an intense depression. After some time apart, Bacon invited him to Paris for a retrospective at the Grand Palais in 1971, but ignored him in favour of other guests upon arrival. The young man finally snapped, and after a hurricane of drinking and drug use, he was found dead the following morning. In his guilt-ridden grief, Bacon would paint several more portraits of Dyer in the years that followed.
“George Dyer is Bacon’s number one muse, like Dora Maar was for Picasso,” said Loic Gouzer, deputy chairman of postwar and contemporary art at Christie’s. “He was the subject who allowed Bacon to push his limits and become the artist he became.”
Bacon’s triptychs are incredibly sought after among art collectors; one piece that depicted his joint friend and rival, Lucian Freud, previously held the world record for highest bid fetched by a painting at an auction, with an offer of $142.4 million in 2013.
Tate Britain to show Lucian Freud and Francis Bacon works side by side in major new exhibition
The Tate will have to borrow work from some of the world's greatest private collections for the show
ROBERT DEX | ARTS | EVENING STANDARD | THURSDAY 25 MAY 2017
Two giants of modern British art - Lucian Freud and Francis Bacon - will share wallspace in a major new exhibition next year.
The Tate will have to borrow work from some of the world’s greatest private collectors for the show which is part of a new season of exhibitions across the various galleries announced today.
Among the works likely to feature in the show, called All Too Human, is Freud’s Sleeping By The Lion Carpet which shows one of his regular models Sue Tilley asleep in his studio.
A similar work showing the same model, Benefits Supervisor Sleeping, was bought at auction for £17.2 million almost a decade ago, setting a then record for a work by a living artist.
Both artist’s work is highly collectable with Bacon’s work attracting even higher sums - three portraits he did of Freud in 1969 sold for a staggering £89 million at auction four years ago.
Both men were members of the 1970’s-era School of London which was associated with more traditional work rather than the abstract approach fashionable at the time and the show will also include work by less-well known artists who were also members of the School such as Frank Auerbach and R.B. Kitaj.
Other shows announced today include an exhibition of work at Tate Britain by Pre-Raphaelite Edward Burne-Jones.
Around 150 of his works, including painting, stained glass and tapestry, will appear in the show which is the first major retrospective of his work in four decades.
As well as a previously announced Picasso show, Tate Modern will feature shows dedicated to two pioneering women artists - Joan Jonas, an early exponent of video art, and Anni Albers who transformed the use of textiles in art as part of Germany’s Bauhaus movement and then later in exile in the United States.
Other planned shows include an exhibition of photography with work by names including Man Ray and another examining how the First World War influenced the art of different countries including France, Germany and the UK
ATHENAEUM ART HISTORY LECTURES: FRANCIS BACON
ART | LECTURES | LA JOLLA | SAN DIEGO READER | 20 MAY 2017
The Athenaeum Music & Arts Library is pleased to announce An Introduction to Francis Bacon, a series of art history lectures presented by Hugh Davies, director emeritus of the Museum of Contemporary Art San Diego. On May 25 the subject will be Francis Bacon: Paintings from 1945-1973 and on June 29, Francis Bacon: the Late Work.
Hugh Davies did his doctoral dissertation on Francis Bacon at Princeton University, largely based on a series of interviews with the artist in London from February through July 1973. The dissertation was subsequently published by Garland Press as Outstanding Dissertations in the Fine Arts. Davies co-published another book on Francis Bacon with Sally Yard through Abbeville Press in 1986, contributed chapters and articles on Bacon for several other publications and exhibition catalogues, and curated Francis Bacon: Papal Portraits in 1999 for MCASD. He currently serves as one of the five members of the Francis Bacon Authentication Committee, which published his catalogue raisonné in 2016.
Note: If you previously attended the April 13 lecture introducing the art of Francis Bacon and had purchased tickets for the series (originally planned for just two lectures), contact the library to find out how to incorporate the third lecture.
When: Thursday, May 25, 2017, 7:30 p.m. to 9:30 p.m.
Contemporary Art Buyers Cautious After Wall Street Dips
By SCOTT REYBURN | ARTS | THE NEW YORK TIMES | MAY 17, 2017
Francis Bacon’s brooding “Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer” from 1963 drew a winning bid of $51.8 million, including fees. “The Bacon could have done a bit better,” a private dealer said.
A substantial fall on Wall Street cooled demand Wednesday night at a Christie’s auction of contemporary works that was regarded by many as the first serious test of the art market in the Trump economy.
The 71-lot sale raised $448.1 million with fees against a low estimate of $339 million. Ninety-six percent of the works found buyers — helped by the auction house’s guaranteeing the minimum price of no fewer than 39 works — but bidders were conspicuously cautious, and few lots sold significantly above their estimates. Fifty-five percent of the lots were bought by American bidders, Christie’s said.
“If Wall Street hadn’t taken a dive, there would have been fireworks,” said David Benrimon, a New York dealer. “While the sale was strong over all, it did change the mood among American bidders, and these contemporary sales are about Americans.”
The core of Christie’s sale was a group of 25 works formerly owned by the eminent Kings Point, N.Y., collectors Emily and Jerry Spiegel, who both died in 2009. In September, their collection was divided between their daughters, Pamela Sanders and Lise Spiegel Wilks, who were reported to be feuding. Ms. Sanders is selling a total of 107 pieces with a value of more than $100 million at Christie’s while Ms. Wilks will be offering a Jean-Michel Basquiat painting valued at $60 million at Sotheby’s on Thursday night. Both sisters have been guaranteed minimum prices by the auction houses.
Ms. Sanders’ most highly valued Spiegel collection works at Christie’s were Sigmar Polke's 1964 Ben-Day dot canvas, Frau mit Butterbrot, and Untitled, a 1988 Christopher Wool word painting emblazoned with “PLEASE” six times. Both works sold toward the low end of their estimates to telephone bidders, for $17 million and $17.2 million.
The Spiegel pieces, all of which were guaranteed — which can in itself sometimes dampen demand — raised $116 million against an estimate of $79 million.
Tellingly, the two highest-bid lots in Christie’s sale were both offered without guarantees. Cy Twombly’s six-foot-tall abstract, Leda and the Swan, was fresh to the auction market and was valued at $35 million to $55 million. It attracted at least five bidders before going to the dealer Larry Gagosian, who was in the room to bid the night’s top price of $52.9 million
Francis Bacon's brooding Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer from 1963 was also fresh to the market without a guarantee. Entered from a private collection in Paris, having previously been owned by the author Roald Dahl, this triptych of expressive head studies of the artist’s lover was estimated to sell for at least $50 million — an auction high for Bacon canvases of smaller format. It attracted two telephone bidders and a winning bid of $51.8 million, including fees.
“The Bacon could have done a bit better,” said Ivor Braka, a private dealer based in London. “Because it wasn’t glazed, it lacked luster.” Mr. Braka added that the bidding was “measured and stable — unlike the politics in this country.”
Mr. Braka said that demand was all the more measured because of some ambitious estimates. Eyebrows were raised before the sale by Christie’s $13 million valuation on a monumental and thickly textured abstract by Mark Grotjahn, Untitled (S III Released to France Face 43.14), dating from 2011. The painting had been acquired by Patrick Seguin, a collector and dealer in 20th-century design based in Paris, directly from the artist for an undisclosed price.
Paintings by Mr. Grotjahn, who is based in California, are on the shopping lists of many wealthy collectors, but this work was valued — and guaranteed by a third party — at a level that was exactly double the artist’s previous auction high. Nonetheless, two telephone bidders pushed the price up to $16.8 million.
It was a strong estimate, but we went for it,” said Alex Rotter, Christie’s co-chairman of postwar and contemporary art in the Americas. He added: “It’s a competitive environment, and that leads to certain price expectations. I was worried when I looked at the stock market today, but if a lot sells for a couple of ticks above estimate, that’s a success.”
Post-War and Contemporary Art Evening Sale
17 May 2017, New York, Rockefeller Center
SALE 14187 | LOT 38 B | FRANCIS BACON (1909 - 1992)
Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer
titled and dated '3 Studies For Portrait of George Dyer 1963.'
(on the reverse of the
triptych—oil on canvas each: 14 x 12 in. (35.5 x 30.5 cm.)
Painted in 1963.
Price realised USD 51,767,500
Marlborough Fine Art, London
Roald Dahl, Great Missenden
Waddington Galleries, London
Acquired from the above by the present owner
Property From a Private Collection, Paris
Francis Bacon, exh. cat.,
Paris, Centre National d'Art et de Culture Georges Pompidou, 1996, p. 64
D. Sturrock, Storyteller: The Authorized Biography of Roald Dahl, New York, 2010, p. 440.
J. A. Knapp, ed., Shakespeare and the Power of the Face, Farnham, 2015, pp. 168-170, fig. 10.2 (illustrated).
M. Harrison, ed., Francis Bacon: Catalogue Raisonné: Volume III 1958-71, London, 2016, pp. 738-739, no. 63-15 (illustrated in color).
Oslo, Kunstnerforbundet; Trondheim,
Kunstforening; Bergen, Kunstforeningen; Warsaw, Museum Narodowe; Poznan, Museum
Narodowe and Krakow, Museum Narodowe, British Paintings 1945-1970,
January-July 1972, n.p., no. 10 (illustrated).
Saint-Paul-de-Vence, Fondation Maeght, Bacon-Freud: Expressions, July-October 1995, pp. 46-47 and 204, no. 11 (illustrated in color).
Stockholm, Moderna Museet, Wounds: Between Democracy and Redemption in Contemporary Art, February-April 1998, vol. 1, p. 171; vol. 2, n.p. (illustrated in color).
Paris, Fondation Dina Vierny-Musée Maillol, Francis Bacon: Le Sacré et le Profane, April-June 2004, pp. 112 and 157 (illustrated in color).
Edinburgh, Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art, Francis Bacon: Portraits and Heads, June-September 2005, pp. 60-61, no. 29 (illustrated in color).
Hamburger Kunsthalle, Francis Bacon. Die Portraits, October 2005-January 2006, p. 73, no. 28 (illustrated in color).
London, Tate Britain; Madrid, Museo Nacional del Prado and New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, Francis Bacon: A Centenary Retrospective, September 2008-August 2009, pp. 186 and 280 (illustrated in color).
Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer is the very first portrait Francis Bacon painted of his greatest muse. Executed in 1963, this mesmeric triptych was completed mere months after Bacon first met George Dyer, a handsome petty thief from London’s East End. It marks the inception of their turbulent and ultimately tragic relationship and introduces a model who, John Russell declared, “will live forever in the iconography of the English face” (J. Russell, Francis Bacon, London, 1971, p. 165). The encounter between the two lovers was transformative, with Dyer becoming to Bacon what Dora Maar famously was to Picasso. His masculinity and muscularity, his sexual aura and anxious persona, acted as a wellspring for pictorial breakthroughs that helped stake Bacon’s claim as one of the 20th-century’s most celebrated artists.
This triptych is the beginning of a journey that saw Bacon paint Dyer’s face and body obsessively for many years. Dyer would appear in at least 40 of Bacon’s paintings, many of which were created after his death in Paris in 1971, barely 36 hours before Bacon’s major retrospective opened at the Grand Palais. The convulsive beauty of the present work represents the flowering of Bacon’s infatuation with the man portrayed and is only one of five triptychs of Dyer that the artist painted in this intimate scale. This example is unique among them, as it does not depict the white shirt and sharp suit that Dyer invariably wore. Instead, the head and neck emerge disembodied from the darkness—explosive, agitated, naked, and unmoored from spatial or temporal reality.
Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer was completed during the moment of greatest personal and professional contentment in Bacon’s career. In the autumn of 1961 he had ended his somewhat transient existence by securing a permanent base at 7 Reece Mews in South Kensington. He also established a habitual structure for his paintings during this time—limiting his supports to the 14 x 12-inch canvas format used exclusively for portrait heads, and the large 78 x 58-inch canvases that typically show full-length bodies and biomorphic figures. When the artist met Dyer towards the end of 1963, Bacon was being praised by a public who now saw him less as a maverick, than a master of figurative painting. This came on the heels of his first major retrospective in May 1962 at Tate in London, which was followed by a triumphant exhibition at New York’s Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum in October 1963.
beginning of the 1960s also signaled a new virtuosity and complete change of
style for the artist as all his brushwork became concentrated in the figure,
whereas in earlier works the figure tended to dissolve into the field. What
first strikes the viewer of this triple portrait are the vigour, passion and
fluidity of Bacon’s painting
technique. Dyer’s presence materializes from dynamic interlocking lines and
planes rendered in white and flesh-toned hues mixed with sweeps of emerald, all
set against a gritty black void. His distorted features appear and dissolve in
the sweeps of gestured paint, with flecks of vermilion and gaping holes
articulating the contours of his animated visage. There is something beyond
representation on display here—this is the individual presented as their very
essence. It is this quality that made Three Studies for a Portrait of George
Dyer so compelling to its first owner—another titan of the arts—writer Roald
Dahl, who chose with great care five singular works from Bacon’s oeuvre between
1964 and 1967. The triptych was seldom displayed publicly in the decades to
follow, but it has in more recent years been included in significant
international solo exhibitions, including the Francis Bacon retrospective that
toured the Tate in London, the Museo Nacional Prado in Madrid and the
Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York between 2008 and 2009.
The Rise and Fall of George Dyer
Bacon and Dyer’s first encounter is the stuff of art world legend, thanks to Bacon’s claim that he caught Dyer in the act of breaking into his Reece Mews studio—a myth perpetuated by the 1998 biopic film Love is the Devil. But the artist also told a less glamorous but much more plausible tale of meeting him during a night of drunken fun. Whichever the case, Bacon was instantly attracted to the handsome young man with the build of a Michelangelo figure and an air of latent violence. This was in the autumn of 1963, when Bacon was almost 54 and Dyer was around 30. An intense friendship immediately sprung up between the two very different men, with Dyer becoming Bacon’s lover, muse and dependent throughout much of the 1960s and early ‘70s.
Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer was painted within a couple of months
of their first acquaintance, when Bacon’s passion for the younger man was at its
most fervent. As a known masochist who had a predilection for “rough trade,”
Bacon was drawn to Dyer’s underworld mystique and criminal past. He would soon
discover, however, that behind Dyer’s immaculately groomed yet somewhat menacing
façade was a shy, kind-hearted man who made a hopeless career criminal.
“[George] was much too nice to be a crook,” Bacon would later joke (F. Bacon,
quoted in M. Peppiatt, Francis Bacon in Your Blood: A Memoir, London, 2015, p.
248). In fact, the man Bacon dubbed “Sir George” was a troubled, emotionally
fraught character. Often pale, anxious
and constantly smoking, Dyer
frequently found himself crippled by a sense of insecurity and purposelessness.
He devoted himself to Bacon and tried to convince himself that being a
significant artist’s companion and subject of much-lauded paintings gave his
life greater meaning. But as the decade wore on and the pair’s dynamic began to
unravel, Dyer’s drinking and despondency grew increasingly worse. Bacon became
impatient with his neediness and Dyer became desperate—he attempted suicide on
more than one occasion and framed the artist for cannabis possession, which led
to a humiliating court case that ultimately came to center on Dyer unreliability
as a witness. The intensity of his relationship with Dyer became a source of
both deep personal sadness and important artistic stimulation for Bacon, who
chronicled Dyer’s perceived deficiencies in a masterful series of large
stand-alone canvases, including George Dyer Riding a Bicycle, 1966 (Fondation
and Portrait of George Dyer in a Mirror, 1968 (Museo
Although Bacon tried to distance himself from Dyer on several occasions, the pair remained close. Dyer was invited to join Bacon’s entourage to Paris for the retrospective at the Grand Palais in 1971, but Bacon virtually ignored him on arrival. Unable to cope with the crowd of dignitaries and admirers that permanently surrounded Bacon there, Dyer went on an alcohol- and pill-fueled bender. The next morning, he was found dead in their hotel room. On a recent BBC documentary, A Brush with Violence, former Marlborough Gallery employee Terry Danziger-Miles revealed that he was one of the first people at the scene, along with Bacon’s gallerist Valerie Beston, and that Beston, Bacon and the hotel’s manager agreed not to announce Dyer’s death for two days to prevent the whiff of scandal ruining the exhibition’s opening proceedings.
The degree to which Bacon was
subsequently consumed by grief and guilt was evidenced in his posthumous
paintings known collectively known as the Black Triptychs, which relate the
tragic circumstances of his lover’s last, lonely hours: In Memory of George
Dyer, 1971 (Fondation Beyeler, Basel), Triptych August, 1972 (Tate, London)
and Triptych May-June, 1973 (private collection). Bacon was immensely tortured
by his death, and portraits of Dyer continued to haunt his output for some
years. He later reflected that, “[Dyer’s] stealing at least gave him a raison
d’être, even though he wasn’t very successful at it and was always in and out of
prison. It gave him something to think about... I thought I was helping him when
I took him out of that life. I knew the next time he was caught he’d get a heavy
sentence. And I thought, well, life’s too short to spend half of it in prison.
But I was wrong, of course. He’d have been in and out of prison, but at least
he’d have been alive” (F. Bacon, ibid. p. 248).
Portraiture and the Search for the Self
From the early 1960s Bacon was increasingly drawn to portraiture for its element
of artistic jeopardy. Long the preserve of High Art, portraiture was then out of
step with prevailing trends and needed to be completely reinvented if it was to
remain culturally relevant. It needed to investigate the existential nature of
life itself. Bacon was above all concerned with the conditions of painting and
sought to make his ideas and their method of delivery inseparable. His aim was
to find a technique that would “trap the energy that emanates” from a person,
this task he recruited a select
number of close friends whose personalities shared his own taste for risk.
Although Bacon idealized Dyer’s thuggish good looks, he was also able to grasp beneath the veneer of his tough appearance to expose something of his inner vulnerability. In Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer, Dyer’s head and neck completely fill the frame, confronting the viewer with the concentrated intensity of an intimate and startlingly animated portrait. Mute and isolated upon a vacant ground, the figure is engulfed within the dark depths of his own psyche. The sequence of ever-shifting visages, rendered in a palette more reminiscent of muscle and tissue than skin, seems to turn Dyer inside out, stripping him down to mutable flesh hanging from bone. Still identifiable despite the contortions, Dyer’s portrait seems to speak of mortality and the fleetingness of human life in simple and universal terms.
David Sylvester once asked Bacon, “When you’re painting a portrait, are you at all conscious of trying to say something about your feelings in regard to the model or about what the model might be feeling, or are you only thinking about their appearance?” Bacon replied, “Every form that you make has an implication, so that, when you are painting somebody, you know that you are, of course, trying to get near not only to their appearance but also to the way they have affected you” (D. Sylvester, Interviews with Francis Bacon, 1962–1979, London, 1980, p. 130). This statement acknowledges the unavoidable trace of the artist’s subjectivity in summoning his images. For although a portrait is a representation of another individual, it is also inevitably a reflection of the self. Bacon’s practice of working in isolation from his sitters, relying on memory, photographic cues and an instinctive approach to color, form and line, permitted him to not simply describe, but also to invite the realm of the unconscious and imaginary into his art. In this way, he felt better able to distil into the paint surface a sense of the emotional impact his subjects made upon him.
Bacon would often further muddy the waters between subject and object by impressing aspects of his own features onto that of his sitters. There are hints of this practice in Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer, particularly in the right-hand panel where an enlarged eye socket and broad right cheek have more in common with Bacon’s face than Dyer’s. The triptych can therefore be seen as a dramatic conjoining of two lovers’ bodies. Here Bacon seeks a proximity and intensity to Dyer through paint that was impossible in life, for, as he once described his frustration, “If you’re in love you can’t break down the barriers of the skin” (F. Bacon quoted in M. Harrison, In Camera Francis Bacon: Photography, Film and the Practice of Painting, London, 2005, p. 216).
As the first portrait of Dyer that Bacon ever painted, the present work is a dedication to his all-consuming new relationship. This idea is given added poignancy when one reflects on the resonance it has with a triptych Bacon painted the previous year featuring a self-portrait flanked by images of his former partner Peter Lacy. Bacon had received the news of Lacy’s death in Tangier on the occasion of his 1962 retrospective exhibition at the Tate, and within a month or so he completed Study for Three Heads, 1962 (Museum of Modern Art, New York), initiating the 14 x 12-inch measurements that he would subsequently use for all his small portrait paintings. Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer is like the earlier work not just in its scale, but also in its concentration on the disembodied head rendered in a palette of pinks, white and emerald green against a black background. Yet Study for Three Heads has a more spectral quality as the application of pigment is thinner, the brushstrokes broader. It somehow lacks the intense physical presence and visceral paint application of the Dyer triptych. Considered together, it would seem Bacon used his art to exorcize his feelings of loss towards one lover and to celebrate the beginning of a new chapter with another.
According to Michael Peppiatt, George Dyer “came to feel inseparable from the effigies Bacon had created of him. They gave him a raison d’être, a stature even, that his failure to be anything else made all the more precious” (M. Peppiatt, op. cit., p. 213). Dyer took enormous pride in being the subject of so many paintings, but he could not fathom why Bacon depicted him as he did. Indeed, Bacon’s practice of pulling apart and reconstructing people’s appearance reached a new level of intensity with the portraits of George Dyer. Not only had Bacon reached the height of his creative powers, but found in Dyer’s handsome visage and athletic body the perfect vehicle for conveying his most complex feelings towards human existence.
As with all his portraits of Dyer, the liberties Bacon took with his appearance in this triptych are underpinned by an erotic charge. His features are at once pummeled out of shape and caressed by sweeping brushstrokes, echoing the sadomasochistic pleasures Bacon desired from his lovers. But the portraits also expose Bacon’s sensitivity to Dyer’s fragility. The eyes in each canvas are averted from the viewer, either searching the surroundings furtively, looking downwards, or slightly detached, as if the sitter were withdrawn in anxious thought. The mouth, meanwhile, is closed and twisted, and is even partially obscured by gestural brushwork, particularly in the central panel. These erasures seem intended to evoke Dyer’s slight speech impediment, which made him sound, according to Daniel Farson, “as if the words were struggling to break free” (D. Farson, The Gilded Gutter Life of Francis Bacon, London, 1993, p. 172). Bacon considered his painterly deformations and dissolutions to be a concentration of reality, a shorthand of sensation. His work confronts the forces of the body that make it flesh and bone, as well as the forces outside the body that infuse and surround it. His aim was to slow down the chaos of reality, the chaos of emotion, to provide a new concept of the portrait, a new sensation that harnesses a balance between tension and collapse. “What fascinates him are the invisible forces that model flesh or shake it,” Gilles Deluze observed. “This is the relationship not of form and matter, but of materials and forces—making these forces visible through their effects on the flesh. …What fascinates Bacon is not movement, but its effects on an immobile body: heads whipped by wind or deformed by an aspiration, but also all the interior forces that climb through the flesh. To make the spasm visible” (G. Deleuze, Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation, London, 2005, p. xii).
The malleable quality of Bacon’s figures and heads was founded on the early influence of Picasso on his ambition to become an artist. Picasso’s example had revealed to him “how realism can draw on the unconscious” to great effect (F. Bacon, quoted in D. Sylvester, Looking Back at Francis Bacon, London, 2000, p. 13). Taking this lesson on board, Bacon contorted his subjects with the goal of making them somehow more real, more poignant, than if they were painted in a naturalistic fashion. In Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer, Bacon’s prodigious use of rapid, impulsive brush marks creates an encrusted surface wrought from swirling rhythms of scumbled paint, giving the sense of Dyer’s life force. Despite the visual turmoil, the figure remains instantly recognizable, perfectly encompassing Bacon’s quest to “distort the thing far beyond the appearance, but in the distortion to bring it back to a recording of the appearance” (F. Bacon, quoted in D. Sylvester, The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, London, 1987, p. 40).
“Triptychs are the things I like doing most,” Bacon stated in 1979. “So far as my work has any quality, I often feel perhaps it is the triptychs that have the best quality” (F. Bacon, quoted in D. Sylvester, Looking Back at Francis Bacon, London, 2000, p. 100). Indeed, Bacon’s triptych paintings, both epic and intimate, have largely defined his career. With his portrait studies, he found in this structure a vehicle for painting differing angles and perspectives within a sequence of closely related units, while in his larger paintings he could establish complex interrelated yet isolated scenes. It was a device that he often used since painting his groundbreaking 1944 triptych, Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion (Tate, London), as it allowed him to explore his subject matter both more accurately and with more detachment.
When asked what attracted him to this format, he answered, “I see images in series. And I suppose I could go on long beyond the triptych and do five or six together, but I find the triptych to be the most balanced format” (F. Bacon, ibid, p. 100). When not painting triptychs, Bacon tended to think in broader series, producing variations on thematically linked imagery such as his Popes, men in suits and van Gogh paintings. The present work seems to fit into both categories of Bacon’s work for, as a triptych belonging to a grouping of five Dyer portrait triptychs, its seriality is multiplied. An inscription on the reverse of the later triptych, Three Studies of George Dyer (on pink ground) 1964 (private collection) stating, “3 Portraits of George Dyer Series No. 2 1964,” would suggest the artist intended for present work to become an extended cycle, thereby multiplying its serial nature well beyond the confines of the tripartite form.
In historical Christian art, triptychs often followed a hierarchical structure, where the most attention is concentrated on the central panel and the attendant wings are dedicated to supporting stories or portraits of saints or donors. With Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer there is no such hierarchy, in fact the subject itself is the same across all three canvases. In the left and right-hand panels, the two heads look slightly inward towards the central panel, effectively bracketing the work and lending the three images a collective and cohesive unity. This creates a kind of visual circuit as the viewer’s eye tracks back and forth between Dyer’s turned heads and his line of sight. This feature is a progression on the linear dramatic development evident in Bacon’s earliest portrait triptych, Three Studies of the Human Head 1953 (private collection)—a seminal work that depicts three individuals respectively grinning, screaming and in a state of collapse.
The conscious building of three different images into a unity is a unique and powerful feature of Bacon’s later portrait triptychs that reflects his belief that a combination of images merges together in the mind to form a stronger and more accurate picture of hard factual reality. In this triptych, the isolated frames suggest a kind of shuttering or strobe effect that throws the essence of Dyer’s psychological and physical presence into relief. “Of course,” Bacon once said, “what in a curious way one’s always hoping to do is to paint the one picture which will annihilate all the other ones, to concentrate everything into one painting. But actually in the series one picture reflects on the other continuously and sometimes they’re better in series than they are separately because, unfortunately, I’ve never yet been able to make the one image that sums up all the others. So one image against the other seems to be able to say the thing more” (F. Bacon, quoted in, D. Sylvester, The Brutality of Fact, Interviews with Francis Bacon, London, 1990, p. 130-133).
Photography, Time and Motion
Bacon hated making people pose for him in his studio. He stated, in an oft-cited quote, that sitting models “inhibit me. They inhibit me because, if I like them, I don’t want to practice before them the injury that I do to them in my work. I would rather practice the injury in private by which I think I can record the fact of them more clearly” (F. Bacon, ibid., p. 41). He instead found reference images were enough of a trigger to access his unconscious, intuitive impulses—they were “a release mechanism for ideas, a detonator” (F. Bacon, quoted in M. Kundera & F. Borel, Portraits and Self-Portraits, London, 1996, p. 201). As with most of his portraits of friends, Bacon relied on photographs for the creation of Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer. The source images for the triptych were a series commissioned from John Deakin, a drinking companion who had previously worked as a photographer for Vogue. Deakin captured at least four sets of photographs dedicated to Dyer, including close-up portraits and nudes. The black-and-white prints used for this work show Dyer in profile and front on, like a group of police mug-shots—a significant coincidence given his criminal history.
It is important to note that in Bacon’s effort to advance portrait painting, he turned to the very thing that had usurped it. Yet Bacon sought something more than the illustrative, something that could only be achieved through the mercurial medium of paint. He did not use photographs slavishly, depending at least as much on his memory and imagination to harness the sought-for essence of the individual. Adopting a dispassionate, almost scientific, detachment from his subject matter, Bacon consciously disrupted the recognizability of Deakin’s images, smearing and battering Dyer’s head into a distorted image—one more real, he hoped, than any naturalistic representation. “I think it’s the slight remove from the fact, which returns me onto the fact more violently,” he told David Sylvester. “Through the photographic image I find myself beginning to wander into the image and unlock what I think of its reality more than I can by looking at it” (D, Sylvester, op. cit., p. 30).
A photographic image is laden with pathos, as, in freezing the transient, it points to our mortality. The triptych format of the present work, and its depiction of Dyer’s ever-shifting face, seems to respond to this notion of temporality. The three variants of the same subject speak to time’s active force in a way that recalls Eadweard Muybridge’s famous sequential photographic studies of the figure in motion—another key visual reference for Bacon. Deakin’s original “mug-shots” of Dyer captured several viewpoints to convey a sense of three dimensions, but it is Bacon’s dynamic reinterpretation that has truly brought the subject to life. The dramatic changes to Dyer’s head imply that nothing is permanent, that even when we are static we are defenseless to change at the hands of time. As John Russell has explained, with Bacon’s painting, “the image is nowhere fixed, finite, descriptive; and yet it tells us more fully and more truthfully than any conventional portrait what it is like to be a human being. It suggests to us that earlier images have been unwarrantedly bland in their presentation of human nature; and it also suggests that this particular new kind of presentation is something that only painting can do. Painting here reclaims its rights” (J. Russell, Francis Bacon, London, 1971, p. 132)
Francis Bacon's childhood home in Co Kildare guides €2.75m
MADELEINE LYONS | THE IRISH TIMES | THURSDAY, MAY 11, 2017
When Marcus and Edel Beresford took up residence at Straffan Lodge in 1989, the primary appeal was its location. Dublin based for the preceding decade, the couple, who originally hailed from stately homes, wanted to return to country life. Just 18 miles from Dublin, Straffan Lodge on the outskirts of the Kildare village of Straffan, provided the ideal base for Marcus, a solicitor (and former chairman of A&L Goodbody) and historian, and his wife Edel, a keen sportswoman who fly-fishes for Ireland.
The couple are also equine enthusiasts, and trained racehorses locally with Arthur Moore for many years, including Marcus du Berlais which placed second and third in the 2004 and 2005 Grand Nationals
The 34 acres of land at Straffan Lodge was mainly kept for the children’s ponies as they pursued eventing and showjumping interests.
Marcus Beresford almost apologetically admits that Straffan Lodge’s most prominent claim to fame had practically eluded him until they had already taken up ownership. For it was here that the internationally acclaimed Irish artist Francis Bacon spent his early years.
From 1909 the artist lived here until 1926 when he famously fell out with his father, a former British army captain, who had retired to Kildare to train and breed racehorses, with little success, his son always said.
Marcus defends Bacon junior’s harsh analysis, having reviewed Bacon senior’s training records, and he regrets never having contacted Bacon before his death in 1992 to ask about his time at Straffan Lodge.
Instead, and for many years, Bacon’s sister, Ianthe, was a frequent visitor to the property where she recalled an idyllic childhood. Unsurprising really, given the lovely matured sylvan setting and the 5,000sq ft Georgian country manor at its heart.
Artist Francis Bacon lived in Straffan Lodge from 1909 to 1926.
Straffan Lodge was most likely built on the land of the original Straffan House Demesne – where the K Club is now located – originally owned by the Barton family, of Barton & Guestier wine.
The house itself, like many Irish country homes, appears to have evolved over two eras. The front section dates from the 1820s, and was likely to have been added to the more modest rear as the owner’s fortunes improved.
The main hall, approached via a flight of granite steps, retains its Georgian features including simple cornices, fanlight above the front door and original timber floors.
In keeping with the symmetry of the era, the two main receptions are accessed to the right and left of the hall, and with their original floor to ceiling shuttered sash windows, they make the very most of their sunny southerly aspect on a glorious May day.
The formal receptions are covered with oil portraits of notable figures from the Beresford family tree. Marcus is the 7th Baron Decies in the de la Poer Beresford line, and ancestors of note include Marshall Williams Carr Beresford who, as Captain General of Spain, was Wellington’s right-hand man in the Napoleonic war, and Archbishop of Tuam, William Beresford, whose unfeasibly large and flamboyant portrait quite dominates the upper stairway.
Both receptions feature fine marble fireplaces – the one in the diningroom came from Edel’s family home, Belleville, beside the Ashtown gates of the Phoenix Park.
Off the dining room is a cosy duck egg blue country kitchen added in the 1920s and updated by the Beresfords, with a lovely bay window overlooking the lawn, and French windows lead out to a very nicely contained patio and large enclosed garden.
One side of the enclosure – where the barbecue is located – comprises an ornate folly wall hand-built by previous owner, Robert Guinness of the Guinness banking family, who lived here for 20 years.
To the rear of the ground floor are probably the original more modest rooms of Straffan Lodge, and include a study with woodburning stove, an office, a cloakroom and a second scullery kitchen/utility.
Upstairs are five bedrooms laid out over two levels. The grander two – added with the main receptions below – face to the front, providing lovely uninterrupted views across the lawn, beyond the Ha-Ha to the paddocks running to the boundary. Two smaller doubles, a single, two en suites and an updated bathroom complete the upstairs accommodation.
The basement, as with all these country homes, has long since retired its original function as a downstairs kitchen, although a sprawling old range stands as testimony. Now it’s used as a snooker room, there’s a tack room off it with access to the yard, a wine cellar and gun room.
Francis Bacon: lived at Straffan Lodge until he 16.
Just outside the back door of the house is a strip of loose boxes and garages, and somewhat surprisingly, three further bedrooms of guest accommodation in a fully refurbished and heated two-storey house adjacent to the main house.
Behind this, in an area replanted where the original orchard once stood, is an astro turf tennis court and, Marcus’s pride and joy, a fruit garden which promises a huge bounty of raspberries, strawberries, blackcurrants, blueberries, loganberries and gooseberries any day now.
With their four children reared the Beresfords are moving on – albeit with a heavy heart after many happy years here – and Straffan Lodge is for sale by tender, with Paddy Jordan guiding €2.75 million.
The tender process is a little different to the usual private treaty and auction methods, and is more often applied to commercial land sales.
Unconditional sealed bids are invited before July 3rd, which means all due diligence must be completed and the deposit prepared in advance. Paddy Jordan is banking on concentrating minds over a finite selling period – not a bad strategy given that country home sales can often be protracted affairs over a minimum of 12 months. Whether it pays off is anyone’s guess.
Straffan Lodge will doubtless need another injection of cash to bring it up to modern day living requirements, but the basic ingredients for a lovely rambling family home are all there. The land itself may also have appeal for local stud farms looking to extend their footprint in the heart of bloodstock country.
Sensationeller Neuerwerb: Francis Bacons „Portrait“ von 1962 im Museum für Gegenwartskunst
Siegen. Das ist großartig. Francis Bacons „Portrait“ von 1962 ist wieder zu sehen, aber nicht irgendwo, sondern in Siegen im Museum für Gegenwartskunst. Die Ausstellung „6 x Francis Bacon … und andere Höhepunkte der Sammlung Lambrecht-Schadeberg“, die ihr 25-jähriges Bestehen feiert, läuft bis Dezember diesen Jahres.
SIEGERLAND KURIER | 12 MAI 2017
Museumsdirektorin Dr. Eva Schmidt und Sammlungs-Kurator Prof. Dr. Christian Spies vor Francis Bacons „Portrait“ von 1962.
30 Jahre lang befand sich Francis Bacons „Portrait“ von 1962 in der Privatsammlung des italienischen Filmregisseurs Michelangelo Antonioni, unzugänglich für die Öffentlichkeit.
Das Gemälde ist besonders, nicht nur weil es lange Zeit „verschwunden“ war; es gibt dazu eine Zeichnung mit der Notiz: „This painting is a portrait of Peter (Dieses Bild portraitiert Peter)“. Das war Bacons Lebensgefährte Peter Lacy. Dadurch bekommt das Gemälde eine sehr persönliche Komponente, stellt es doch einen Dialog zwischen den beiden Partnern dar. Außerdem zeigt sich in dem Bild erstmals ein Rundraum, in dessen Mitte sich die Figur wie auf einer Bühne präsentiert. Am Rand verarbeitete Bacon dünne Farben, während er zur Mitte hin und gerade dort dicke Farbschichten auftrug. Francis Bacon ist bekannt für seine impulsiven Selbstinszenierungen, auch dass er sein Privatleben in seine Kunst mit einbrachte; er machte keinen Hehl aus seiner Homosexualität. „Interessant ist, dass Francis Bacon etwa im Gegensatz zu Lucian Freud lieber alleine im Atelier war und nach Fotovorlagen arbeitete“, weiß Museumsdirektorin Dr. Eva Schmidt zu berichten. Die Preise für Bacons Bilder sind in den vergangenen Jahren enorm gestiegen; er gilt als einer der bedeutendsten Maler des 20. Jahrhunderts. Sein „Portrait“ von 1962 zeigte Francis Bacon übrigens zum ersten Mal in seiner ersten Retrospektive. Stationen waren damals Glasgow, Zürich und das Kunstmuseum in Bochum. Neben Bacons Frühwerken der 50er Jahre und Spätwerken der 80er Jahre zählen insbesondere die Arbeiten aus den 60ern und 70ern zu seinen eindrücklichsten.
Insgesamt sechs Gemälde des Iren Francis Bacon (1909-1992), der im Alter von 58 Jahren der 3. Rubenspreisträger der Stadt Siegen geworden war, können Besucher jetzt betrachten: neben dem „Portrait“ von 1962 noch „Study for Portrait (Pope)“ von 1957, „Small Study for a Portrait“ von 1959/50, „Study from the Human Body and Portrait“ von 1988, „Study for Landscape after Van Gogh“ von 1957 sowie „Man at Curtain“ von 1949/50. Somit beherbergt das Museum für Gegenwartskunst eine der wichtigsten Bacon-Sammlungen in Europa.
Aber es gibt noch zusätzliche spektakuläre Neuankäufe des Museums, wie etwa weitere Bilder von Lucian Freud, Bridget Riley, Emil Schumacher und Fritz Winter. Mit all diesen Bild-Höhepunkten feiert die Sammlung, die 1992 von Barbara Lambrecht-Schadeberg gegründet wurde, ihr 25-jähriges Bestehen. Zur Ausstellung gibt es ein filmisches Portrait und sonntägliche Führungen bezüglich Francis Bacon. „Jedes einzelne Bild der Sammlung Lambrecht-Schadeberg prägt diese, wertet sie weiter auf und schreibt mit an der Geschichte der Malerei des 20. und 21. Jahrhunderts“, betont Kurator Prof. Dr. Christian Spies.
Siegen: Sammlung mit Francis Bacon
KUNST & DESIGN | WESTFALIUM | 8 MAI 2017
Die Neuerwerbung: Francis Bacon, Portrait, 1962
Siegen – Zerrissenheit, Isolation und Gewalt sind die Themen, mit denen sich der irische Maler Francis Bacon beschäftigte. Mit dem Erwerb des großformatigen Gemäldes „Portrait“ von 1962 gelingt es der Sammlung Lambrecht-Schadeberg die repräsentative Werkgruppe zu erweitern. Mit nun insgesamt sechs zentralen Gemälden beherbergt das Museum für Gegenwartskunst in Siegen jetzt eine der wichtigsten Bacon-Sammlungen in Europa.
Francis Bacon (1909-1992) gilt als einer der bedeutendsten Maler des 20. Jahrhunderts. Als Autodidakt begann er in den 1920er Jahren mit der Malerei. Inspiriert von Pablo Picasso, Van Gogh oder Velázquez schuf er melancholisch-aggressive Werke von enormer Präsenz und Wirkung.
Der Mensch steht in Bacons Gemälden im Zentrum. Oft ist er als torsohafte, deformierte und surreale Erscheinung dargestellt. Nur durch Verzerrung und Entstellung – so Bacons Ansicht – könne man der existentiellen Realität näher kommen. Der Betrachter solle mit der Wirklichkeit konfrontiert, von ihr überfallen, bedrängt und sogar überwältigt werden. Empfindungen sollen nicht allein durch Motive ausgelöst werden, sondern geradewegs in der Malerei – den Farbkörpern Bacons – provoziert werden.
Auch der Bildraum spielt dabei eine entscheidende Rolle. Vielfach ist er widersprüchlich konstruiert, teils umfängt er die Porträtierten als Käfig, teils wirkt er undurchdringlich und leer.
Grundsätzlich bezieht sich Bacon auf bereits vorhandene Bilder, auf Gemälde, Fotografien und Filme, die dann durch eine Neu-Formation der Lebenswirklichkeit näher kommen sollen. Bacon selbst sprach von einen neuen Realismus, den er „recreation“ nannte.
Für seine Fähigkeit, die Realität so unmittelbar und schonungslos darzustellen, erhielt Francis Bacon vor genau 50 Jahren den 3. Rubenspreis der Stadt Siegen.„Jedes seiner Bilder ist von einer überzeugenden, oft bitteren Monumentalität beherrscht“, urteilte die Jury im Jahre 1967.
Inzwischen umfasst die Sammlung Lambrecht-Schadeberg repräsentative Werke aus allen Schaffensphasen Bacons. Darunter befindet sich sowohl ein Gemälde aus Bacons berühmter Papstserie nach dem Vorbild von Diego Velázquez aus dem Jahr 1957, wie eines seiner grellfarbigen Selbstporträts des Spätwerks („Study from the Human Body and Portrait“ 1988). Aus der Serie über ein Gemälde von Vincent von Gogh stammt das Landschaftsgemälde „Study for a Landscape After Van Gogh“ von 1957.
Am gestrigen 7. Mai hat das Museum für Gegenwartskunst das neu-erworbene Bacon Gemälde in einer Sonderpräsentation erstmals der Öffentlichkeit vorgestellt. Zugleich wird das 25-jährige Bestehen der Sammlung Lambrecht-Schadeberg mit weiteren Neuerwerbungen der letzten Zeit gefeiert, darunter Arbeiten von Emil Schumacher, Fritz Winter, Lucian Freud und Bridget Riley.
Dienstag bis Donnerstag 11.00 bis 18.00 Uhr
Donnerstag 11.00 bis 20.00 Uhr
Montag geschlossen, alle Feiertage geöffnet.
A world premier at the gallery
MARIA GREGORIOU | CYPRUS MAIL | MAY 1st, 2017
Francis Bacon and Lucian Freud in Soho: photograph: Harry Diamond 1974
Theatre and great painters come together in a new play entitled Bacon/Freud by Anthie Zachariadou, which is to have its premiere on Saturday in Nicosia.
The new play, based on the true friendship between two art legends Francis Bacon and Lucian Freud is presented as part of a third theatre collaboration between Alpha Square and Leventis Gallery.
Bacon/ Freud is set in 1988 in a Berlin gallery where a small painting was stolen – a portrait of the great artist Francis Bacon. Since then, it is nowhere to be found. This disappearance isn’t just a loss of a great work, for the creator, famous painter Lucian Freud (grandson of Sigmund), that painting possibly represented the most significant relationship he ever had. Just like, the painting the relationship was also lost and the work of art was all he had to remind him of it.
The play is co-directed by Andreas Araouzos and Varnavas Kyriazis, who also take on the parts of Bacon and Freud while Elena Katsouri is responsible for the design, set and costumes.
The play, which will run for ten performances, will be staged every Wednesday and Saturday at 8.30pm and Sunday at 6.30pm. There will be no show on May 10.
Performance of the play based on the relationship between the two artists. May 6-28. Leventis Gallery, Nicosia. 8.30pm. €15. In Greek. Tel: 22-668838
The Mystery of Lucian Freud's Missing 'Bacon'
In the middle of a crowded 1988 show, someone absconded with Lucian Freud’s relatively small painting of his one-time friend Francis Bacon.
ALLISON MCNEARNEY | THE DAILY BEAST | 2 APRIL 2017
In 1988, the Neue Nationalgalerie in Berlin debuted an exhibition of Lucian Freud paintings. By all accounts, the show was a success, with the Germans warmly embracing the work of the famed British painter…maybe a little too warmly.
On May 27, the gallery filled with students on a trip to see the exhibit. It was just another day at the show with visitors milling around examining Freud’s paintings under the watchful eye of art guards when someone noticed something alarming—one of the works was missing.
In broad daylight, in the middle of a crowded show, someone had absconded with Lucian Freud’s relatively small painting of his one-time friend Francis Bacon.
While Freud had started a second painting of his fellow artist, the missing copper canvas was the only portrait of Bacon that he ever completed.
In a 2008 piece in The Guardian, art critic Robert Hughes called the painting an “unequivocal masterpiece,” continuing on to write “that smooth, pallid pear of a face like a hand-grenade on the point of detonation, those evasive-looking eyes under their blade-like lids, had long struck me as one of the key images of modernity.”
But twenty years earlier, that important “image of modernity” had disappeared with not so much as a peep heard or a glimpse caught in the time since. Zero substantial leads have turned up in the case of the missing Francis Bacon.
The seeds of Freud’s small masterpiece were sown in 1945, when Lucian Freud and Francis bacon were introduced by their mutual friend, artist Graham Sutherland.
The 23-year-old Freud and 36-year-old Bacon hit it off almost immediately.
n his book, The Art of Rivalry: Four Friendships, Betrayals, and Breakthroughs in Modern Art, Sebastian Smee described their friendship as “the most interesting, fertile—and volatile—relationship in British art of the twentieth century.”
The two painters were opposites in many ways. At the beginning of their friendship, Bacon was a rising star on the British art scene while Freud was still toiling over his canvases in relative obscurity. And toil he did—Freud was painstaking in his work, spending up to several months working on one piece, while Bacon painted much more quickly and instinctually.
But despite their different working styles, they developed a deep friendship and respect that would lead to each artist’s work being influenced—and criticized—by the other.
At the height of their relationship, the two painters would meet daily at the Gargoyle Club, and then the Colony Club once it opened, where they would drink, gamble, and argue the evening away with a coterie of other friends who came and went. While art was the most important thing in their lives, they also lived on the edge with days filled with drink and debauchery.
During that time, the two were spending so much time together that Lady Caroline Blackwood, Freud’s second wife, said, “I had dinner with [Bacon] nearly every night for more or less the whole of my marriage to Lucian. We also had lunch.”
Naturally, given the amount of time spent in each other’s company talking about art, the artists also decided to paint one other. Bacon completed16 works of Freud, the most influential of which was a triptych of his friend sitting in a chair that became the most expensive piece of art ever sold at auction when it was snapped up for a cool $142 million in 2013. (This record was shattered in 2015 when a Picasso sold for $179.4 million.)
But the much more methodical Freud only reciprocated with two paintings. Bacon sat first for three months in 1952 resulting in the Francis Bacon on copper. Freud worked on the second painting of his friend between 1956 and 1957, but it was eventually left unfinished after Bacon stopped sitting for him. (The unfinished work still fetched a respectable $9.4 million at auction in 2008).
For a quarter of a century, the friendship burned bright. But, as was most likely inevitable given the two very opinionated and passionate artists, their friendship blazed to an end by the 1970s and it would never recover.
While all missing or destroyed art delivers a deep blow to an artist’s oeuvre, the loss of Francis Bacon was a particularly upsetting one.
Not only was it a seminal portrait in the development of Freud’s style, but, some have suggested, it also was an emotional reminder of his former friend.
After discovering that Freud kept a “Wanted” poster of the portrait (more on that later) hanging next to his studio door, Smee told Artsy, “I knew that he wanted that painting back very much because of its quality, but I also thought it must have been partly to do with the fact that the subject of the painting was this person who had played such a crucial role in his life and in his artistic career.”
With no suspects in the theft, all that was left to do was speculate who could have taken the painting.
A camera crew visiting the exhibit filmed the portrait at 11am; by 3pm, it had been reported missing. Sometime in those four hours, someone had simply unscrewed the piece from the wall and walked off with it, aided by the fact that there were no alarms or cameras in the vicinity. Rather than an organized crime ring or an experienced art thief, Freud always thought the culprit was someone a little more naive, a little closer to home.
“I wonder whether it was taken by a student because it was stolen when the gallery was full of students. Also, for a student to take a small picture is not that odd, is it?” Freud told The Telegraph. He also suspected that the student nabbed it not out of admiration for Freud’s talent, but out of an admiration for Bacon.
Germany has a 12-year statute of limitations on prosecuting crimes like these. Once the statute on the Francis Bacon theft had expired, Freud decided to make one last attempt to recover the painting.
In 2001, ahead of a retrospective planned the following year at the Tate, Freud sketched out a black and white reproduction of the missing painting on a poster that proclaimed “Wanted” in bright red type. “Would the person who holds the painting kindly consider allowing me to show it in my exhibition next June?” the text read above the offer of a reward of over $100,000 for its return and the promise that no questions would be asked.
Around 2,500 copies of the poster were printed and plastered across Berlin but, alas, no one stepped forward to heed Freud’s polite plea. The only thing that came out of the campaign was the aforementioned art on Freud’s wall—one of these posters received a place of honor hung next to the door of the artist’s studio.
The loss continued to sting Freud up to his death in 2011.
From the day it was taken in 1988, the artist only allowed black and white photos of the painting to be shown or printed.
It was a decision he made “partly because there was no decent colour reproduction, partly as a kind of mourning,” the painter told The Telegraph.
It was an artistic—and a symbolic—gesture of loss. “In fact, the painting is quite near monochrome—so it comes out quite well, and I thought it was a rather jokey equivalent to a black arm band. You know—there it isn’t!”
Homage to Francis Bacon's triptych series
JUDITH RITCHIE | THE NELSON MAIL | EST. 1866 | 28 MARCH 2017
Viv Sellers and James Taylor, with the triptych Playing Bacon on display at The Framing Rooms.
The Framing Rooms on Collingwood St are featuring a triptych, titled Playing Bacon, in honour of British expressionist painter Francis Bacon. Painted by Viv Sellers, also originally from England and a fan of Bacon's work, the triptych is a tongue-in-cheek homage to Bacon's portrait series.
"I remember the first time I saw three of Bacon's works, it was at the Tate Gallery, I was about eight years old and went with my aunt," says Sellers. "They were lying on the floor waiting to be hung; the guy's take on the human condition, capturing the often grotesque, really stuck in my brain."
To compose the portraits in the triptych, Sellers used still shots taken from his television from the 1998 film titled: Love is the Devil: Study for a Portrait of Francis Bacon. The scene showed Bacon, played by Derek Jacobi, posing in a photo booth. Once completed, he took the triptych into the Framing Rooms to have them framed.
By coincidence, James Taylor, co-owner of the Framing Rooms, had just read in the English Guardian newspaper about a 1963 triptych painted by Bacon, appearing at auction for the first time.
Showing the artist's lover and muse George Dyer, the triptych, once owned by author Roald Dahl, is on display at Christie's in London before its sale in New York in May. It is estimated to sell for US$50-$70m.
Taylor, who learned his craft at the renowned John Jones Picture Framers in London, can recall Bacon himself coming into the shop to have his paintings framed.
"He turned up once with a cheap, ready-made metal frame in a Tesco's bag and asked if we thought it would suit one of his paintings," says Taylor. "The answer was most definitely no."
When Sellers brought Playing Bacon into the Framing Rooms, Taylor recommended a dynamic black frame to complement the strength of the work.
Sellers wondered if Bacon would approve of the choice of frame but concluded that, typically, he probably "wouldn't give a damn."
Playing Bacon, Viv Sellers, The Framing Rooms, Collingwood St, to April 15.
Stunning collection of modern art goes on display in Tehran
Exhibits include works by Francis Bacon and gay Iranian painter Bahman Mohasses – bought before Islamic revolution of 1979
SAEED KAMALI DEHGHAN | IRAN CORRESPONDENT | THE GUARDIAN | FRIDAY 10 MARCH 2017
CENSORED: Francis Bacon’s Attendants displayed without the central panel Two Figures Lying on a Bed
A remarkable collection of modern western and Iranian art that had been gathering dust in the cellar of a Tehran museum and blocked from being shown in Europe has gone on display in Iran’s capital.
The collection features works by two prominent gay artists, Francis Bacon and Bahman Mohasses.
Some of the hidden treasures of Tehran’s museum of contemporary art had been due to travel to Berlin and Rome this year for their first show outside Iran since they were bought by the museum before the 1979 revolution.
But those exhibitions were cancelled, bringing embarrassment to German and Iranian officials, after Iranian artists protested about the secrecy surrounding their transfer, concerns about their fate, and the fact that some had never been shown before in Iran.
Now the works that were due to arrive in Europe have gone on display in Tehran, much to the delight of art lovers in Iran.
Speaking at the opening of the exhibition, Majid Molanorouzi, a former head of the museum, said there was still hope that the works would get to the German and Italian capitals “in the summer this year”.
Tehran’s museum of contemporary art is believed to have the finest collection of modern western art anywhere outside Europe and the US, including works by Pablo Picasso, Jackson Pollock and Andy Warhol. The works are thought to be worth more than $2.5bn (£2bn) in total.
A total of 30 western artists and 30 works by Iranian figures are on show at the exhibition, entitled Berlin-Rome Travellers.
But two artists stand out: Bacon and Mohasses, both of whom were openly gay. Bacon’s painting Reclining Man with Sculpture and his triptych, Two Figures Lying on a Bed with Attendant, are displayed.
Mohasses, who died in Rome in 2010, is seen as Iran’s most prominent artist of the past century and is certainly the country’s best-known artistic figure to have been openly gay, although he lived in post-revolutionary times in Italy.
Homosexuality is punishable by death in Iran and carries a huge social stigma. Mohasses’ sexuality is not discussed officially in his home country.
In a recent poll conducted by an Iranian art journal, he came first in the list of the country’s popular contemporary artists. But his prominence was overlooked for many years – some of his works were destroyed by the authorities and some by the artist himself.
Iranian painter Nicky Nodjoumi, whose work has been acquired by the British Museum, said the elites and those close to the artist knew he was gay.
“To me, his artistic significance in Iranian contemporary art is enormous,” he told the Guardian.
“He followed his instinct to portray the suffering of humanity according to what he was feeling, rather than depicting the benign decorative Islamic motives. No doubt his being gay influenced his art – most of his paintings are figurative, the majority of [his] paintings are nude men in a orgy situation.
“Even though he was trying to conceal it with different tactics to hide them, he was living in Islamic society. In many respects we can compare him with Frances Bacon and I would say [he was] influenced by him.”
In 2012, Iranian film-maker Mitra Farahani made a documentary about the life and works of Bahman Mohasses, Fifi Howls from Happiness, which is named after a painting by the artist himself. The film provided a unique insight into Mohasses’ life in exile.
“Being homosexual did not have anything to do with him being reclusive, it was the opposite – he was proud of his sexuality and lived it fully,” she said.
Farahani complained about the lack of efforts by the Iranian government to retrieve, restore and list Mohasses’ work.
“The people who chose Mohasses as their most popular artist should know how many works have remained from him and where they are,” she said.
“The six-metre long sculpture of Les Amants that was made for a Shah villa in the Kish island, and was influenced by a poem by [Persian poet] Nima [Yooshij], where is it?”
She added: “Even if they can’t put them on display, they should keep them safe and let people know about them, because [his works] belong to the people.”
Iran’s LGBT community thrives despite restrictions. Works by internationally-known gay writers have been translated into Persian and published in Iran.
These include works by by Marcel Proust and André Gide. Officials appear to tolerate such works so long as their subjects are not explicitly gay or cannot be easily detected.
Sohrab Sepehri, Mohsen Vaziri, Monir Farmanfarmaian and Paarviz Tanavoli are among other Iranian artists featured in Berlin-Rome Travellers.
Controversial Francis Bacon Crucifixion Drawings Go On Display In London Church
Last year a Gallery in Mayfair exhibited a selection of drawings and collages from the Cristiano Lovatelli Ravarino collection of works by Francis Bacon. It created quite a stir in the press, as the collection remains unauthenticated by the Bacon Estate and rejected as fakes by the author of the new catalogue raisonné.
ART NEWS | ARTLYST | 6 MARCH 2017
The works are said to have been made between 1977 and 1992 and given to Cristiano in Italy. The drawings are described as in “temporary custody” of David Edwards, the brother of Bacon’s long-term lover, the late John Edwards, but are still owned by Ravarino. Last year, Gallery owner, Alice Herrick told the Art Newspaper that around 600 drawings were given to Ravarino, who was one of the artist’s lovers, from 1977 up until Bacon’s death in 1992. The author of the forthcoming catalogue raisonné of Bacon paintings, undertaken for the Francis Bacon Estate, has rejected the Ravarino works. In 2012 Martin Harrison told a Cambridge court that six drawings he had been shown were “pastiches, or even parodies, and profoundly disrespectful of Bacon’s authentic body of work”. The works have passed through a number of experts who have deemed the signatures correct and the court has been unable to prove that the body of work is wrong.
Now, St Stephen Walbrook is exhibiting Crucifixion drawings by Francis Bacon from “The Francis Bacon Collection of the drawings given to Cristiano Lovatelli Ravarino”. Between 1977 and 1992 Francis Bacon donated to an intimate Italian friend a considerable number of drawings, pastels, and collages. Today those drawings are part of a collection which has previously been exhibited in Bologna, Dubrovnik, London, Madrid and Trieste among other locations.
The image of crucifixion was consistently utilised by Francis Bacon in his art to think about all life’s horror as he could not find a subject as valid to embrace all the nuances of human feelings and behaviours. This exhibition of crucifixion drawings by Bacon provides an opportunity to explore why the image of the crucified Christ retained its power for an avowed atheist such as Bacon and to reflect on the horror of the suffering that Christ endured for humanity.
Revd Jonathan Evens says: ‘Francis Bacon rather obsessively revisited religious imagery in his iconic paintings. The subject of the crucifixion preoccupied him throughout his life as he made at least eight major Crucifixion paintings, spanning five decades, including the work that launched his career, Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion. Bacon thought that this subject, more than any other, had the validity to embrace all the nuances of human feelings and behaviours that enable us to think about all life’s horror. Bacon’s basing of his godless images on an image freighted and weighted with salvific power highlights its enduring impact, even in the secular West and even in the work of an avowed atheist. The bleak obscuring of features in Bacon’s images of Christ reveals the emanation of love which leads Christ into nothingness. For all these reasons, Bacon’s crucifixion drawings deserve the interest of Christians, as well as that of art historians or art lovers, and reward informed reflection and contemplation.’
In his recollections of Francis Bacon, Cristiano Lovatelli Ravarino suggests that: ‘It is completely wrong to see Francis Bacon as a determined blasphemer and convinced atheist. As a matter of fact, and paradoxically, Francis was almost more fascinating in what he thought about religion than in what he actually painted. This man frequently described (first, by we journalists) like a merciless satanic drunkard was one of the most pitifully charitable people I ever met.’ He suggests that ‘Bacon was a gambler, but he was a gambler more in hiding himself from people than in actually playing roulette.’
Controversial or not this exhibition is one not to miss! If the courts can’t decide on an outcome of authenticity, it is up to members of the public to assess this vast collection of works. We think whatever they are the works are rather nice!
London based public art collaborative Art Below will feature selected works from the exhibition in stations including Bond Street, Green Park and St. Paul’s from the 13th March for two weeks.
Exhibition events • Monday 6 March, 5.00pm: Francis Bacon & The Crucifixion – lectures by Edward Lucie-Smith & Revd Jonathan Evens • Monday 6 March, 6.30pm: Preview & opening night reception • Monday 13 March, 6.30pm: The Crucifixion in modern art & Poetry reading – Revd Jonathan Evens (lecture) & Rupert Loydell (poetry reading)
Wednesday 29 March, 7.00pm: concert by Claudio Crismani This will be amazing and full so book your tickets in advance
Crucifixions: Francis Bacon – 6-31 March 2017, 10.00am – 4.00pm Mon – Fri (Weds, 11.00am – 3.00pm), St Stephen Walbrook, 39 Walbrook, London EC4N 8BN
Roald Dahl's Francis Bacon Studies To Be Auctioned Estimate $50-$70m
ART NEWS | ARTLYST | 27 FEBRUARY 2017
George Dyer was to Bacon what Dora Maar was to Picasso – Loic Gouzer Christie’s
Francis Bacon’s Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer, 1963 will be a featured highlight at Christie's in its May 17 Post-War and Contemporary Evening Sale in New York. Estimated at a staggering $50,000,000-70,000,000 the work painted in 1963, marks the beginning of Francis Bacon’s relationship with Dyer, one of his greatest source of inspiration.
The triptych is the very first portrait Bacon made of his longtime muse who came to feature in many of the artist’s most arresting and sought after works. Dyer came to appear in at least forty of Bacon’s paintings, many of which were created after his death in Paris in 1971. The convulsive beauty of this work represents the flowering of Bacon’s infatuation with Dyer, and is only one of five triptychs of Dyer that the artist painted in this intimate scale.
The present example once resided in the collection of Bacon’s close friend, Roald Dahl. The celebrated author became an adamant admirer of Bacon’s work upon first encounter at a touring exhibition in 1958.
However, collecting his work was not financially viable at the time. In the 1960’s, Dahl’s career saw new heights. He published celebrated books, James and the Giant Peach and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and he wrote the screenplay for the James Bond film, You Only Live Twice. Buoyed by his newfound success, Dahl acquired four judiciously chosen works by Bacon between 1964 and 1967. The present triptych was among them.
Loic Gouzer, Deputy Chairman, Post-War and Contemporary Art, remarked: “Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer is a masterful triptych, which was completed within the first three months of Bacon’s encounter with Dyer. This powerful portrait exemplifies the dynamism and complex psychology that the artist is most revered for. George Dyer is to Bacon what Dora Maar was to Picasso.
He is arguably the most important model of the second half of the 20th century, because Dyer’s persona as well and physical traits acted as a catalyst for Bacon’s pictorial breakthroughs. The Francis Bacon that we know today, would not exist without the transformative encounter that he had with George Dyer.”
Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer was completed during the greatest moment of personal and professional contentment in Bacon’s career. When the artist met Dyer towards the end of 1963, Bacon was being praised by a public who now saw him as a master of figurative painting. This came on the heels of his first major retrospective in May 1962 at the Tate in London, which was followed by a triumphant exhibition at New York’s Guggenheim Museum in October 1963.
Over the past 40 years, Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer has been a central fixture in many of the artist’s most important exhibitions. It was most recently featured in Bacon’s celebrated 2008-2009 retrospective that travelled to the Tate Britain, London, the Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid and the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. It has also been shown in the National Scottish Gallery, Edinburgh and the Moderna Museet in the Stockholm, among other institutions.
Bacon’s first ever portrait of
his great muse, George Dyer Formerly in the collection of author Roald Dahl On
view at Christie’s London from 24 February – 8 March Auction: Post-War and
Contemporary Art 17 May 2017 7pm
Bacon triptych, once owned by Roald Dahl, to lead Christie's New York sale in May
The auction house is also selling works by Picasso, Ernst and Lichtenstein to benefit Cleveland Clinic
GABRIELLA ANGELETI | HELEN STOILAS | THE ART NEWSPAPER | 24 FEBRUARY 2017
Francis Bacon, Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer (1963)
Christie’s has offered an early peek at the works consigned for its 20th-century art auctions in New York in May, which will be led by Francis Bacon’s triptych Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer (1963), and include pieces by Picasso, Ernst, Giacometti, and Lichtenstein.
The triple portrait is the first Bacon ever made of his longtime muse and lover George Dyer—he would go on to use him as a subject in some 40 paintings—and was created at the very start of their relationship. “George Dyer is to Bacon what Dora Maar was to Picasso,” says Loic Gouzer, Christie’s deputy chairman for post-war and contemporary art. “He is arguably the most important model of the second half of the 20th century, because Dyer’s persona as well and physical traits acted as a catalyst for Bacon’s pictorial breakthroughs.”
The work, estimated to make between $50m to $70m, was once owned by the British author Roald Dahl, a close friend of Bacon’s. Bloomberg has identified the current owner as the French actor Francis Lombrail, who has held it for 25 years and loaned it to a number of exhibitions dedicated to the artist, including the travelling retrospective in 2008-09 that was shown at London’s Tate Britain, Madrid’s Prado, and New York’s Metropolitan Museum. Christie's sold another triptych by Bacon, Three Studies of Lucian Freud (1969) in 2013, which broke the record at the time for the most expensive work sold at auction when it made $142.4m against an estimate of $85m.
The auction house will also offer eight works from the collection of Sydell Miller with all proceeds to be donated to the Cleveland Clinic Heart & Vascular Institute, a non-profit medical centre located in Ohio. Miller, an American philanthropist, is a member of the centre’s board of trustees.
Slated for the 17 May post-war and contemporary art evening sale is a cast, made during the artist's lifetime, of Alberto Giacometti’s sculpture of his wife, Buste d’Annette VI (conceived 1962, cast 1964, est $1.5m-$2.5m), as well as works by Jean Dubuffet and Louise Bourgeois.
Francis Bacon Painting May Reach $70 Million at Christie's Sale
The 1963 triptych previously belonged to author Roald Dahl
The seller is the French actor and collector Francis Lombrail
by Katya Kazakina | Bloomberg | February 24, 2017
Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer
A portrait of Francis Bacon’s lover may fetch as much as $70 million at Christie’s in May, when bellwether auctions test the health of the high-end art market.
The triptych Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer was painted in 1963, soon after the two men met. It depicts three versions of Dyer’s twisted face, each on a separate, small, black canvas. In 2014, a similar triptych, done in 1964 on a light background, sold for 26.7 million pounds (about $45.6 million at the time) at Sotheby’s.
The work for sale at Christie’s is the first major consignment for the next auction season in New York. Sales of works by Bacon, who became the most expensive artist at auction in November 2013, have fallen 74 percent since 2014, according to Artprice.com. Last year, his sales tallied $69.6 million as the industry’s supply of top-tier works dried up amid economic and political volatility.
The work previously belonged to Roald Dahl, the British author of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and James and the Giant Peach. The piece, which isn’t guaranteed, will be offered during the evening sale of postwar and contemporary art on May 17, Christie’s said Friday in a statement.
“It’s a real trophy work,” said Loic Gouzer, Christie’s deputy chairman of postwar and contemporary art. “George Dyer is Bacon’s No. 1 muse like Dora Maar was for Picasso. He was the subject who allowed Bacon to push his limits and become the artist he became.”
The seller is Francis Lombrail, a French actor who’s owned it for 25 years. Lombrail said he first spotted the work when it was turned against the wall at a Paris art fair; all he could see was back of the canvas.
“I saw the title. I saw the date. And before I even saw the work, I knew it’s my painting,” Lombrail, 70, said in a telephone interview. “I knew I had an incredible chance.”
Although he declined to disclose his purchase price, Lombrail said he had to sell much of the art he owned at the time to pay for the Bacon. It may turn out to be a savvy investment, as Christie’s is estimating the work at $50 million to $70 million.
Over the years, he lent the piece to major exhibitions, including at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, London’s Tate and the Museo Nacional del Prado in Madrid. He said he will use the proceeds to pay for an historic Paris theatre he recently bought.
“All the biggest actors in France played there,” said Lombrail. “It’s like the Bacon of theaters.”
Francis Bacon's first portrait of lover George Dyer goes on sale
1963 triptych of muse was painted three months into relationship and was once owned by Roald Dahl
Mark Brown | Arts Correspondent | The Guardian | Friday 24 February 2017
Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer is on display as Christie’s in London before auction in New York.
Francis Bacon’s first portrait of George Dyer, the East End petty criminal who became the artist’s lover and muse, is to appear at auction for the first time.
The 1963 triptych, once owned by Roald Dahl, was painted three months into a relationship which, a much repeated story goes, began after bacon caught Dyer attempting to burgle his home in South Kensington, south-west London.
Instead of calling the police the artist invited him to bed. The truth is far more pedestrian in that they met in a Soho pub, Dyer offering to buy Bacon a drink.
So began a tempestuous and largely drunken relationship which ended in tragedy a decade later when Dyer killed himself days before Bacon’s important retrospective at the Grand Palais in Paris.
Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer has gone on display at Christie’s in London before its sale in New York in May. The work has an estimated price tag of between $50m (£40m) and $70m.
The auction house’s head of postwar and contemporary art in London said the passion of the relationship was plain to see. “It is like they are making love together, it is a sensual portrait of George Dyer but you can almost find some hints of Bacon … the two bodies are merging, it is very dramatic,” said Edmond Francey.
Dyer appeared in more than 40 of Bacon’s paintings. That this this triptych was the first, makes it a historically important work.
Loic Gouzer, Christie’s deputy chairman of postwar and contemporary art, said the portrait exemplified “the dynamism and complex psychology” that Bacon was most revered for.
He added: “George Dyer is to Bacon what Dora Maar was to Picasso. He is arguably the most important model of the second half of the 20th century, because Dyer’s persona as well and physical traits acted as a catalyst for Bacon’s pictorial breakthroughs.
“The Francis Bacon that we know today would not exist without the transformative encounter that he had with George Dyer.”
The former ownership of the work adds an extra layer of interest. Dahl was a passionate Bacon fan and keen to collect, but the artist’s works were not cheap.
The success of his books, James and the Giant Peach and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, as well as money from writing the screenplay for the James Bond film You Only Live Twice, allowed Dahl to indulge his passion, buying the Dyer triptych along with three other works by Bacon between 1964 and 1967.
The triptych has been given a room of its own at Christie’s in London. On public display in other galleries are works that will be sold in the capital in the coming fortnight as part of Christie's and other auction houses' impressionist and modern art, surreal art and postwar and contemporary sales.
Among the highlights are one of Gauguin’s Tahitian landscapes, Te Fare (La maison), which has estimate of £12m-18m, and a Magritte surreal landscape of a cloud on a drinking glass, La corde sensible, which has an estimate of £14m-£18m and is expected to set an auction record for the artist.
Book Review: Michael Peppiatt's Francis Bacon In Your Blood is a fascinating exploration of the artist, the author, and a decades long friendship
JODIE SLOAN | THE AU REVIEW | EST. 2008 | FEBRUARY 23 2017
As a young student in Swingin’ Sixties London, Michael Peppiatt met the star of British contemporary art, Francis Bacon. Initially just hoping to secure an interview for a university magazine, what followed was thirty years of friendship, late nights, copious amounts of champagne, and an interview that never really ended.
The author of an acclaimed biography of Francis Bacon, Michael Peppiatt here presents more of his own story, albeit one told through the lens of a decades long friendship with one of recent art history’s most controversial and talked about figures. Following Peppiatt as he moves around Europe establishing his career as an art writer and critic, Francis Bacon in Your Blood shows how his relationship with the famous artist influenced and inspired him, and gave him access to exclusive social and professional circles.
Throughout Peppiatt’s life, Bacon appears and disappears, often with an eclectic selection of hangers on and true friends in tow, picking up the tab every time. This makes for a slightly repetitive nature to the book, and the cycle of nights of heavy drinking, interactions with wild characters, and Peppiatt and Bacon musing on life, love, the universe, and, of course, art can start to jar after a while.
But thanks to Peppiatt’s beautiful writing and insightful commentary, the memoir successfully steers clear of monotony. Peppiatt explores all sides of Bacon’s character, including those that lead Bacon to seemingly constantly toe the line of self destruction; and muses on how the friendship reflects upon Peppiatt himself. It’s neither an indictment nor a celebration of Bacon’s lavish lifestyle, rather it’s an interesting insight into how a friend sees the actions of another, with Peppiatt taking a step back and looking at Bacon from a distance.
Given the background of the author, and the fact that the front cover of the book hones in on Bacon, readers might be forgiven for expecting another biography focusing on the artist. Peppiatt himself seems to fall into the same trap from time to time, almost as if his own story isn’t as interesting, and while it’s true that Bacon’s life is a rich tapestry, his ‘gilded gutter life’ only takes on real poignancy when it’s explored by an outsider like Peppiatt. Peppiatt is a way to ground the artist’s heavy handed and excessive ideas and behaviours, making Bacon that much more accessible. It’s a side of the artist that is so well hidden by his work, but Peppiatt, someone who visited his studio, was there at gallery openings to see him speaking so gregariously and openly, and sat with him during his some of his darkest times, is able to draw that out. By analysing Bacon’s words and by presenting his own story side by side, Peppiatt’s rise from starstruck student to someone who understands and reads his older friend with such clarity is central to the book.
Francis Bacon in Your Blood mixes art, ambition, and friendship, with a heavy dose of alcohol, to craft a potent dual portrait of Peppiatt and Bacon. Filled with moments of intense emotion and deep conversation, the story is as beautiful and grotesque as any of the enfant terrible’s paintings, shattering myths and exploring an unlikely, but lasting friendship.
Francis Bacon in Your Blood is available now through Bloomsbury.
Freud and Bacon to visit Málaga's Picasso Museum
CULT British artists will be the focus of a huge new Picasso Museum exhibition.
CHLOE GLOVER | THE OLIVE PRESS | 20 FEBRUARY 2017
Works by Francis Bacon and Lucian Freud will be flown over from Tate London for the five month showcase, open from April 26 to September 17.
Titled Bacon, Freud and the School of London, the exhibition focuses on post-war and late 20th century art which discuss the symbolism and fragility of the human figure.
Among the famed works going on display will be Freud’s Girl with a White Dog, which features of painting of his first wife Kitty while she was pregnant.
Other renowned artists on show include Frank Auerbach, David Bomberg, William Coldstream, B Kitaj, Leon Kossoff, Paula Rego and Euan Uglow.
Talking about the exhibition, a spokesperson for the museum said: “By painting the human figure and their own everyday landscapes, these artists conveyed the fragility and vitality of the human condition.
“Simultaneously, they developed new approaches and styles, translating life into art and reinventing the way it is depicted.”
Much-married, hard-drinking Old Etonian artist who haunted Soho with Bacon and Freud
OBITUARIES | THE TIMES | FEBRUARY 18 2017
Timothy Behrens, Lucien Freud, Francis Bacon, Frank Auerbach, Michael Andrews at Wheelers Restaurant in Soho, London, 1963.
Although Timothy Behrens was one of the “School of London” artists, with Francis Bacon and Lucian Freud, he may be equally remembered for outselling a naked and pregnant supermodel, Kate Moss. He did not paint her; Freud did, selling the work, Naked Portrait, for £3.928 million at Christie’s in 2005. To the shock of the 200 people in the auction room that day, Red-Haired Man on a Chair, a 1962-63 portrait of Freud’s friend and fellow artist Behrens, fetched £4.152 million from an unknown buyer. It was a record price for a Freud.
Moss was said to have been rather miffed about being outshone in this way. As for Behrens, he was underwhelmed by his new-found fame. He was a painter, not a sitter. A fine bilingual poet and writer too. While he was part of the School of London in the late 1950s and early 1960s, which included Frank Auerbach, Michael Andrews and occasionally David Hockney, Behrens was a maverick, an outsider among outsiders. “The School of London never existed,” he said not long ago. “The term was invented by the media. We were just a group of guys who got together in Wheeler’s fish restaurant or the Colony Room [both in Soho], to drink. Simple as that.”
School of London was coined by another member of the group, the American artist RB Kitaj, who had adopted London as his home, and the media jumped on it. The acclaimed photographer John Deakin captured Behrens, Bacon, Freud, Auerbach and Andrews wet-lunching at Wheeler’s in Soho. When not there, they were usually in the Colony Room at 41 Dean Street, where they were known as Muriel’s Boys, after the club’s owner, Muriel Belcher. The “Boys” included other bibulous regulars such as Jeffrey Bernard, Peter O’Toole and George Melly.
ehrens, who spent the last third of his life in Galicia, northwest Spain, where he died, was a great painter in his own right. He kept his prices low as part of his social conscience. “Call me a member of the Galician or La Coruña School, rather than the School of London,” he told a Spanish newspaper. “It disgusts me that a painting can cost more than a house. Lucian wasn’t good and he knew himself he was a pedantic painter. I detested the way he painted. I still don’t like it. I always preferred Bacon, and especially Michael Andrews.”
A painting of Behrens by Andrews — Portrait of Timothy Behrens (1962, oil on cardboard), showing a young skinny Behrens in a doorway — is in the Thyssen-Bornemisza museum in Madrid. When Behrens’s own paintings went up for sale in Spain in recent years they were snapped up.
Timothy John Behrens was born in central London in 1937 to Michael, a Jewish banker from an old Hamburg family, and Felicity (née Arnold). He grew up in Hillingdon, west London, after the Blitz, because it was considered safer. His father, whom he nicknamed “Pooch,” got him into Eton, but he was determined to be an artist. As a child whose talents were seen as troubling, he was sent to see a psychologist. He skipped the session, smoked a packet of cigarettes on the train and went to the Slade School of Fine Art, of University College London, to show them some of his artwork. He was accepted and, aged 16 and the Slade’s youngest pupil, bade farewell to Eton.
His father was not amused. “Pooch really showed me my road in life because all I had to do was the opposite of anything he thought or did. I was always thinking, ‘Fuck you, you bastard.’ I used to dream, asleep or awake, of killing him that day. At breakfast he’d be reading The Times and I’d be thinking: ‘I could do it now, I could go up with my little knife.’ I thought him an incredibly stupid man and now I know it. He was a snob and a bigot, an antisemitic Jew.”
At the Slade, Freud became his tutor, friend and mentor. “He suggested I pose for him and I, 18 years old, was delighted to pose for a painter whose work was hanging in the Tate. There was a time when he protected me, but most of all there was a relation of friendship. He kind of adopted me, but later he cast me out of the nest, as birds do.” Behrens guessed their split may have been related to differences in their perception of the Jewish identity.
Behrens’s sittings, in Freud’s Paddington studio from 1962-63, resulted in Red-Haired Man on a Chair. At the time Behrens felt his uncomfortable, months-long pose was a sacrifice for the greater good of art. Later in life he was more cynical: “I’m a glorified hooligan. I drink plenty and, as you know, we English are famed throughout Europe as drunks who destroy bars.”
Shortly before he died Behrens was in his local bar, Calypso, in the Galician city of A Coruña, gazing out to sea and writing a poem. Those who knew him, which included most of the locals, went into mourning for the loss of the flamboyant, hard-drinking, red-haired English artist. To them he was a Van Gogh-like figure, although with a pirate-style black eye patch rather than an ear bandage. He had lost the sight in his right eye some years previously.
Behrens first married, in 1958, Janet Rheinberg, a fellow student at the Slade, and they had twin girls, Kate and Sophie. Janet died in 1963, Sophie died in 1985 and Kate is among his survivors. In 1963, he married Harriet Hill, daughter of an avant-garde bookseller in Curzon Street. They had two sons, Algy and Charlie, and a daughter, Fanny. In 1983 Behrens got married again, this time to the artist and printmaker Diana Aitchison, niece of the Scottish painter Craigie Aitchison, who was a fellow student and close friend of Behrens at the Slade. The couple met at Craigie’s home at Montecastelli in Tuscany, and they had a child, Harry. Diana survives Behrens, as do his sons, Algy, Charlie and Harry, and his daughters, Kate and Fanny, and his younger brother, Jonathan. Algy is a musician, teacher and artist; Charlie an artist and graphic designer; Kate a poet and writer; Harry a musician and artist; and Fanny a guide and mentor for people with emotional difficulties.
In 1988 Behrens wrote a book, The Monument, the tragic story of his younger brother, Justin, and Justin’s wife, Ursula, an art dealer ten years his senior. After they had lived a nomadic life together, Ursula committed suicide in Sudan in 1981 and a heartbroken Justin took his own life the next year.
According to Behrens’s son Charlie: “Tim was intellectual, a drinker and a rebellious spirit . . . He would play Devil’s advocate to the end. It was a kind of mischievousness, played straight, to see how people might react. His style of painting is fluid and idiosyncratic. He believed in not overcharging for his paintings. In fact, he undercharged.
“He once told me, ‘We’re not really making something much different to food. It shouldn’t be inflated like that, and I don’t like it being elitist, either. The trouble is that sometimes it antagonises your colleagues. It makes them annoyed, they think, what’s he doing, charging [low] prices like that? He’s just undermining us.’ ”
The locals in Galicia nicknamed him torero (bullfighter) and he called his studio his bullring. Often shirtless during the summer, he would hover, stare at his work and then make lunges for the canvas with the brush. “It did look a little like boxing,” said Charlie Behrens, “and the effect was that his brushstrokes would have a certain dynamism.” In Galicia, Behrens did not want to be just another expat, learning only enough Spanish to order una cerveza. He mastered the language and went on to write volumes of poetry in Spanish. “You can’t just learn a few words for use in restaurants,” he said. “You’ve got to learn to fucking perform in it.”
Timothy Behrens, artist, was born on June 2, 1937. He died of thrombosis on February 8, 2017, aged 79
Tim Behrens, artist – obituary
OBITUARIES | THE TELEGRAPH | 18 FEBRUARY 2017
Tim Behrens, Lucian Freud, Francis Bacon, Frank Auerbach and Michael Andrews, having lunch at Wheelers Restaurant in Soho, 1963
Tim Behrens, who has died aged 79, was a painter and writer who in his youth promised to be as much a star of the London art world as his friends and drinking companions Lucian Freud and Francis Bacon; but he later rejected the British way of life and, hobbled at times by personal tragedy, lived from his thirties in obscurity abroad.
In 1963, John Deakin took a now-celebrated photograph of the group of painters later dubbed by RB Kitaj the “School of London”. Behrens sits beside his mentor Freud in it, the others lunching being Bacon, Frank Auerbach and Michael Andrews. Taken at Wheelers oyster bar in Soho, the image was posed – the cork is in the bottle and the glasses empty – and Behrens came to deny their having been a group with aims in common.
Yet the friendship was real, particularly with Freud, whom he saw every day for nine years. A decade older than Behrens, he came to be a substitute father figure – the younger painter hating his own parent – and Freud’s abrupt dissolution of their association in late 1964 shattered Behrens’s world.
They had met when Freud taught Behrens at the Slade. Thereafter they shared a flat for a time, caroused together in Soho – for Behrens a place that was “a school of ideas” – and played frenetic games of pinball. The red-headed Behrens was fierily competitive and never lost.
Once when they were together they bumped into a man who cheerily saluted Lucian. “Run!” Freud shouted, having head-butted the acquaintance. When Behrens had got his breath back, he asked how much Freud owed the man. “Fourteen,” came the reply. “Pounds?” asked Behrens. “Grand,” said Freud.
From the Mephistophelean Freud, Behrens acknowledged, he learned to fill every centimetre of canvas with emotional energy. He said that Freud admitted that he lacked natural talent and compensated for it with intensity of effort. The painters gave each other pictures and Behrens sat for Freud in several portraits during the period in which Freud’s art was evolving into the more vigorous, free-flowing style that would characterise his maturity. In 2005, by which time Freud had become arguably Britain’s most famous living artist, one of his portraits of Behrens sold for a near-record £4.1 million.
So close were they that some assumed they must be in a relationship. As it was, they often went out with the same girls. Freud also shared his contacts in the art world. In 1959, Behrens had the first of three one-man shows at the avant-garde Beaux Arts gallery in London, where Bacon, Auerbach and Andrews had had exhibitions.
Behrens always termed himself a figurative painter. His pictures at the time had a detached, dream-like quality much influenced by Balthus, whose painting The Card Game was owned by his father. Yet in the mid-Sixties his life suddenly altered its seemingly pre-ordained direction.
To Freud’s biographer, Geordie Greig, he said that the cause of his rift with Freud was his attraction to someone who looked like his first wife, shortly after she had died in an accident, although the evidence for this is debatable. He himself never revealed to friends why Freud had broken with him, who overstepped what mark, albeit Freud was to repeat the pattern with others.
The Beaux Arts having closed, Behrens let a lucrative contract with the Marlborough Gallery fall through, moved his family to rural Italy, and swapped painting in oil for acrylic. He later confessed that he did not much like the results, though the change was cathartic. While he remained ambitious for recognition, that was rather harder away from the self-regarding gaze of the London art market and without an entrée to his former circle of friends. “I was a deserter,” he mused in 2003, “and deserters don’t get easily forgiven.”
Timothy John Behrens was born in London on June 2 1937. His father Michael was a City financier who later co-owned The Ionian Bank. He was also a collector of beautiful things, among them art and women; his affair in the late Forties with Elizabeth Jane Howard led her to use him as the model for the protagonist of her novel The Long View (1956).
Although Tim was close to his mother Felicity – his two brothers were much younger – he came to hold a violent dislike for his unbending father. His parents’ London home was in a Nash terrace by Regent’s Park. In 1949, however, they bought Culham Court, an imposing Georgian house and estate bordering the Thames near Henley (now owned by the Swiss billionaire Urs Schwarzenbach).
There Michael entertained artistic friends including Hugh Casson and Edward Ardizzone. Seeing some youthful paintings of Tim’s, Matthew Smith said that he should be encouraged, while Tim took as his model for a bohemian life another visitor, the artist Bateson Mason.
Although good at games and at Latin, Tim did not find Eton– or at least its ambience – sympathetic, and though Michael Behrens had even bought the influential Hanover Gallery from Arthur Jeffress he opposed his son’s artistic intentions.
Suffering from anxiety, Tim began to be sent once a week from school to London to see a psychologist. Naturally, he bunked off and explored the city, learning to smoke Woodbines on the journey back. On one trip, he took his drawings to the Slade and, at 17, was the youngest student admitted.
His contemporaries included Paula Rego and Euan Uglow, while he became lifelong friends there with Craigie Aitchison. With the cartoonist Nicholas Garland he shared a flat rented from the former tutor to Tsar Nicholas II’s children. Nicholas Gibbes had been with them almost until their murders and, having become a Greek Orthodox priest in their memory, kept the house as a shrine to them.
Behrens first married a fellow student, Janet Rheinberg. Their parents had refused them permission to wed and, when they ran away to Gretna Green, they found the police waiting. Craigie Aitchison drove the getaway car.
Although the couple had twin daughters, the marriage did not endure long. Some years after they had split up, Jan had a fatal reaction to a wasp sting while holidaying in Turkey. By then, in 1963, Behrens had married Harriet Hill, daughter of the bookseller Heywood Hill.
While staying in Tuscany with friends – Matthew Spender, the sculptor, and his painter wife Maro – they saw a ruined farmhouse near Siena and decided on the spur of the moment to buy it. They raised the twins and their first two children there (Behrens enjoying sojourns in the hills where he drank and played ping-pong in rustic dives) but they divorced in 1979 and returned to London. Then Behrens was hit by two further blows: the suicides of his youngest brother, Justin, and his twin daughter, Soph. He wrote a book about his brother’s death, The Monument (1988), and for much of the Eighties he stopped painting.
He had done some commissions, however, for the well-connected Spanish decorator Jaime Parladé and, having explored the country with his third wife Diana – a painter and niece of Craigie Aitchison – whom he married in 1983, settled in Galicia.
He and the people of La Coruña took each other to heart and he even began to compose poetry in Spanish. When he returned to painting in the Nineties, once again in oil, his shows sold out quickly. He had retrospectives both in La Coruña and Madrid – the city whose Thyssen collection houses his portrait by Mike Andrews.
By turns rambunctious and intellectual, shocking and conventional, Behrens was an enriching, mischievous, seductive and often tumultuous presence in the lives of those who knew and held him dear. He worked at his painting tirelessly, lunging at his canvas like a bullfighter, although latterly he was handicapped by a piratical eyepatch.
He was irritated by the supposed link between talent and price in the art market and thought that paintings should be an everyday commodity like food. Every so often, someone would ask whether he was not the painter who had belonged to the School of London.
“No,” he would say. “I haven’t lived in London for a long time. I prefer to belong to the School of La Coruña.”
He is survived by a daughter of his first marriage, a daughter and two sons of the second, and by his third wife and their son.
Tim Behrens, born June 2 1937, died February 8 2017
The Art of Rivalry - when Bacon met Freud and other creative friendships
How Picasso became pals with Matisse and why Manet slashed a Degas … all in Sebastian Smee’s study of painter friends
Anthony Quinn | The Guardian | Friday 3 February 2017
Admiration and anxiety … Francis Bacon and Lucian Freud in 1974.
In the end, the true artist goes it alone, no matter what the promptings of advisers, critics, friends. Especially those friends who are artists themselves, for without even knowing it they may also be your rivals. It’s not that the competitive impulse hardwired into so much artistic enterprise is necessarily a harmful one. It might be the thing that drives you on, that piques what this new book describes as “the yearning to be unique, original, inimitable”. But it is just as well to assume the brace position when the ambition of the artist collides with the duty of friendship.
The Art of Rivalry selects four pairs of artists who were also pals and investigates the streams of influence that flowed between each pair. Lucian Freud and Francis Bacon, Degas and Manet, Picasso and Matisse, Pollock and and Willem de Kooning are led into the ring like prizefighters, each eyeballing the other in a posthumous contest of achievement. Art being an unpredictable and often indecipherable commodity, it isn’t clear what conclusions the book is leading us towards. What Sebastian Smee does essentially is to reformulate familiar material – biography, art history, gossip – by viewing it through the prism of a close friendship. Perhaps the most enjoyable of the pairings is Bacon and Freud, because the ambivalence between them feels so awkward and profound. The earliest battleground of their friendship was Freud's exquisite 1952 portrait of Bacon, painted on copper plate in a series of sittings close enough for artist and subject to be touching knees. Mesmerising, memorable, utterly modern, the picture pierced to the very core of Bacon’s volatile nature, somehow giving his face, in Robert Hughes's great phrase, “the silent intensity of a grenade in the millisecond before it goes off”. Sadly it was stolen from the wall of a German museum in 1988 and has never been recovered.
What attracts one artist to another in this account is more than a matter of professional admiration. It is the magnetic force of personality, of daring to be one’s own man. Freud once said of Bacon, “His work impressed me, but his personality affected me.” He envied the older man’s social charm and gregariousness as well as his ruthless attitude to his work (Bacon would destroy whatever he considered unsatisfactory). A century earlier, in Paris, Manet’s sense of passionate conviction would inspire Degas to cultivate a similar boldness of outlook. In the early days of their friendship Picasso, the uncertain expatriate, was struck by the self-possession and ease of Matisse. De Kooning, who called his friend Pollock “the painting cowboy”, was beguiled by the younger man’s outlandishness, his sense of freedom, and his “desperate joy”. Temperament was as much a subject of emulation as technique.
Smee is good on the sense of these friendships as a two-horse race. When one of them enjoys a coup or some kind of breakthrough, you feel the other man brood and take stock: how did he do that? It is not about admiration expressed through gritted teeth – there seems a genuine urge to absorb the other’s example, and then adapt it. Under Bacon’s influence, Freud quit drawing for years to explore the possibilities of paint. In time, it would enable his “mature” style and catapult him into the firmament of international masters. But it’s when the glaze of amity begins to crack that the reader’s interest quickens. Matisse regarded Picasso “almost as a younger brother”, encouraging him, introducing him to family and friends. When offered a gift from Matisse’s studio, Picasso asked for the portrait of his daughter Marguerite, an unusual choice given Picasso’s own struggle with fatherhood: he had recently returned his 13-year-old adopted daughter to the orphanage. He kept the picture all of his life, yet it didn’t prevent him one night – in a stew of resentment towards Matisse – firing toy arrows at it.
Influence, as we know, can create anxiety. While there is pleasure in falling under another’s spell, there comes the countervailing impulse to protect your own identity – “to push back”, in Smee’s phrase. It provokes strange behaviour. One of the famous stories here is of Degas’s 1868-69 portrait of Manet and his wife, Suzanne. As a portrait of a marriage it revealed rather more than Manet liked – the wife absorbed at her piano, the husband sprawled in a pose of bored distraction, perhaps dreaming of another woman. When Degas later visited Manet’s studio, he noticed that the painting he had given the couple had suffered an assault: the canvas had been slashed with a knife through Suzanne’s face. The culprit turned out to be Manet himself, for reasons unknown. They stayed friends, but it marked a break. Degas, one-time protege, had ambushed the master and asserted his independence. “A picture is something that requires as much trickery, malice and vice as the perpetration of a crime,” he once said – and he should know.
In the last months of his life, Jackson Pollock fell in with a younger woman, an artist named Ruth Kligman. She was the only survivor of the car crash that killed Pollock and another friend. Within a year De Kooning, the dead man’s friend and rival, himself began a relationship with Kligman, which lasted seven years – yet when Kligman later wrote a memoir, it was about her time with Pollock. The connection endured: in 1963, De Kooning moved to a house opposite the cemetery where Pollock was buried. It is a tale twisted enough for a Hitchcock movie.
Smee doesn’t have any new material, but he shuffles the pack of familiar stories with dexterity and enthusiasm. His prose, spruce and well-mannered for the most part, suffers minor lapses here and there. He writes “impunity” when he means “impudence”, “a burr in the side” is surely meant to be “a thorn” and so on. He gets the year of Freud’s death wrong, and is perhaps the only man in the world who thinks the Titanic went down in 1913 – a few small blemishes to be painted out when the paperback comes round. As a study of the dynamics of friendship between artists it offers some useful lessons, not the least of them in the tension that may inform every friendship: the longing to be close against the need to stand apart.
The Art of Rivalry: Four Friendships, Betrayals and Breakthroughs in Modern Art is published by Profile.
Francis Bacon: a Brush With Violence
Rachel Cooke | New Statesman | 2 February 2017
Beauty is the thing right now, isn’t it? All I want to do is to sink down into music, novels, art. On which note, the documentary Francis Bacon: a Brush With Violence (28 January, 9pm) seemed to me to be mistitled – and not only because of the woeful pun. Beauty, I say, not violence. The biographer John Richardson, a friend of the artist, said it best at the end of the film, when he suggested that these days people think of Bacon almost as a religious painter, the disgust that trailed his earliest big shows in the 1940s having long since dissipated. Gazing at the paintings, you feel as someone might have done in the 16th century on catching sight of a pietà. What I get from Bacon’s work is an other-worldliness: a transporting, almost paralysing sense of awe. The filth and brutality are almost beside the point.
This is not to criticise Richard Curson Smith’s gossipy but never prurient film. It was incredibly good, elegantly combining footage of Bacon – whose voice always startles me by sounding of the drawing room rather than the gutter – with some transfixing talking heads. Listening to Richardson was thrilling. (“Everything was torn, everything was dirty, everything was . . . wonderful,” he said of Bacon’s studio.)
The same was true of another friend, Nadine Haim. She had never been his subject, she noted, an unfiltered cigarette in her hand. But were he alive now, perhaps her wrinkles would – at this she laughed, darkly – encourage him to take up his brush.
Rather less compelling were the Bacon-fryer-in-chief, his biographer Michael Peppiatt, who fell back on all the old Jekyll and Hyde clichés; and Damien Hirst, still stupidly insistent in the matter of his kinship with the master.
Only one thing spoiled the drama for me. Why are film-makers so afraid of silence and so determined to avoid it by using music? Quiet was badly needed here: moments in which, some terrible biographical truth or infelicity having been uttered, we might have paused to take it all in.
Francis Bacon: A Brush with Violence
Sam Wollaston | Last night's TV | The Guardian | Monday 30 January 2017
This is more BBC2, more Reithian – Francis Bacon: A Brush with Violence (BBC2, Saturday). But also a ton of fun because of the fabulousness of the contributors – not just biographers and critics but drinking mates, neighbours, gallery workers, lovers, wannabe lovers, didnawannabe lovers, doctors, disciples, pop stars, actors, hangers on – and their stories. Insiders from that world with a brilliant way of talking about the extraordinary as if it was quite normal.
John Richardson remembers Bacon’s blind nanny, who slept on the kitchen table, and organised the drugs and the gambling parties, until she died. Bacon’s partner, Peter Lacy, regularly used to beat Francis up, something he actively encouraged and enjoyed, says Michael Peppiatt. Lord Gowrie had a very nice girlfriend at the time, who was vegetarian, but she converted under Gowrie’s tutelage, to meat, though never to Bacon, hahaha. Francis used to pick Marianne Faithfull up from the wall on which she lived and took heroin after splitting up from Mick, and he’d take her to Wheelers, which was wonderful because she could warm up and eat and they’d have a good natter … etc. Everyone drank, gambled, hit each other and tied each other up. And killed themselves, which had to be covered up until after the exhibition.
It is – and they are – ghastly and terrifying, as well as brilliant. And it makes sense that a world of some light and a lot of darkness – and both tenderness and brutality – should be the one from which Bacon’s paintings came.
Remembering John Hurt and the Colony Room
Introducing Rakewell, Apollo’s wandering eye on the art world.
Rakewell | APOLLO | 1 February 2017
It was with great sadness that Rakewell learned of the passing of actor John Hurt, star of Alien, The Elephant Man and much more. Hurt, whom the Rake encountered propping up the bar of the French House with a glass of tonic on more than one occasion, came to London in the ’50s to study as an art student. Aside from the fateful afternoon on which Hurt first encountered Quentin Crisp, whom he would twice portray on screen, and who was the model in one of his life drawing classes, St Martin’s did not contribute greatly to his future thespian success. But this is not to suggest it was the limit to his ties with the art world.
As art students were supposed to do in those days, Hurt fell under the spell of the boho set of Soho’s Colony Room club. Quickly becoming a regular at the infamous dive bar, which from 1948 fostered three generations of artists. According to some testimony, Hurt was ‘most often seen at The Colony falling down its staircase’.
But reminiscing about the bar when it finally closed in 2008, Quietus editor John Doran remembered quite differently: ‘The first time I ascended those stairs I nearly got knocked back down again by John Hurt who was being helped on his way by alcohol, gravity and a gentle push from some burly chaps, who shouted after him: “Fuck off!”’
Nevertheless, Hurt made many friends among the Colony’s clientele, not least founding member Francis Bacon. Indeed, according to artist Mark Clark, when the great painter had fleeting ambitions to direct a film in the 1980s, he was adamant that Hurt should star in it. Alas, the picture was never realised, but speaking to the Telegraph in 2015, Hurt reminisced about another encounter with Bacon.
Walking into the Colony one afternoon, Hurt found Bacon sitting alone, reading the newspaper. ‘“Mmmm,” said Bacon. “When Pablo [Picasso] dies, I’ll be Number One.”’
O caso do roubo de cinco obras de Bacon continua a somar detidos – mais três
Pinturas no valor de 25 milhões de euros continuam em parte incerta.
PÚBLICO | 31 de Janerio de 2017
O roubo de cinco pinturas de Francis Bacon em Madrid, em 2015, continua a somar detenções quase dois anos após o sucedido. O El País noticia esta terça-feira que foram detidos mais três suspeitos pelo furto das cinco obras, que estão avaliadas em cerca de 25 milhões de euros. Sobe assim para dez o número de detenções relacionadas com o caso, que constitui o maior roubo de arte contemporânea alguma vez realizado em Espanha.
As pinturas, subtraídas da residência do coleccionador e amigo do pintor britânico José Capelo no Verão de 2015, terão sido roubadas por um grupo especializado no assalto a casas, ao qual pertenceriam os agora detidos. A operação levou à detenção de outros suspeitos de envolvimento neste tipo de furto e também à apreensão de material diverso, desde fardas de empresas de telecomunicações a armas e munições.
O caso foi inicialmente revelado pelo El País, que contou detlhadamente uma história cujo fim, independentemente das detenções, não estará próximo – as pinturas continuam desaparecidas, embora a investigação tenha apurado que os assaltantes tentaram vendê-las em várias ocasiões. Os suspeitos detidos no ano passado estão agora em liberdade condicional.
Spanish police arrest three in £19m Bacon art heist
Graham Keeley, Madrid | The Times | January 31 2017
One of the portraits stolen from the home of a Spanish financier in a raid described by police as “worthy of a Hollywood movie”
Spanish police have arrested three men in connection with the theft of five paintings by Francis Bacon worth £21 million.
Police raided six homes in the Madrid region and seized a gun, ammunition, manuals for cracking safes, laser devices and oxy-fuel cylinders used to cut metal. Officers said that the suspects were “directly linked” to the robbery and were part of a gang which burgled homes across Spain. They were detained last Thursday but officials only released the information today.
In July 2015 portraits and landscapes by Bacon were stolen from a house in an affluent neighbourhood of the Spanish capital in a break-in police described as “worthy of a Hollywood movie”.
The thieves observed the movements of the home owner and waited until he was away before they struck, disabling the alarm system at the house, which is near the Spanish parliament. Security staff at the building and neighbours did not notice anyone entering or leaving with the stolen works of art.
The thieves, who also took a safe containing coins and jewels, left no trace inside. The stolen paintings were bequeathed by Bacon to his close friend José Capelo Blanco, a Spanish financier. Among the stolen works of art is a portrait of Mr Capelo.
Seven men were arrested last May after a tip-off from a British company that tracks stolen art. The London-based company had received an email from a man living in Sitges, near Barcelona, with images of one of the stolen paintings. The man inquired if the painting was on a list of stolen works of art.
The British company passed the information to a specialised unit of the Spanish police which deals in art thefts. Detectives tracked down the company that had leased the camera used to take the photographs of the stolen painting and details of the customer who hired the equipment. The man who allegedly took the photographs was arrested at his home with another man. None of the paintings has been recovered. The theft is one of the biggest art heists in Spain in recent years.
Mr Capelo Blanco, 61, inherited the works when Bacon died in Madrid in 1992. He was in London when the theft at his home occurred. Mr Capelo met Bacon at a party in honour of the choreographer Frederick Ashton, when the artist was 78 years old. Mr Capelo went on to pose for Bacon for a 1987 portrait and a 1991 triptych, which is part of the collection at the Museum of Modern Art in New York.
Francis Bacon: A Brush with Violence
Saturday night’s barnstorming Francis Bacon documentary was a savagely intimate biography
Andrew Billen | TV Review | The Times | January 30 2017
Francis Bacon: A Brush with
The artist Francis Bacon was a tormented and tormenting man. Photo: Peter Stark, 1975
In a brief career detour as this paper’s arts correspondent, I crossed paths regularly with Margaret Thatcher’s gentlemanly arts minister Richard Luce. An experienced Foreign Office hand, he found himself on a tough learning curve when it came to the arts. One day he told me he would like to meet Francis Bacon, just to ask him why his paintings were so unpleasant.
I hope he saw Saturday’s Francis Bacon: A Brush with Violence. All was revealed. This was a barnstorming arts documentary that paid no lip service to the notion that we need to know about an artist’s technique to understand his work. Impeccably sourced from interviews with Bacon’s friends and colleagues and from interviews with the man himself, Richard Curson Smith assembled a savagely intimate biography of a tormented and tormenting man.
The cruelty of his work was no pose, no intellectual reaction to the war. It painted instead the heady horror of his sex life, starting in the stables of his childhood home in Ireland, where the grooms, on his father’s orders, beat him and then, presumably on their own initiative, buggered him. Lord Gowrie, Luce’s predecessor as arts minister, traced his weirdness to those days. The biographer John Richardson thought he was born a “through-and-through masochist”. Who knows? The die was cast.
As an adult, Bacon’s first great love was a soberly dressed but sadistic former Spitfire pilot who threw the artist through a plate-glass window, causing him only to love him more. After they parted, the pilot took revenge by killing himself, or so the artist believed, on the day Bacon’s first big retrospective opened.
His last lover was an East End thug called George Dyer, who turned out to be disappointingly gentle, a crime for which he was excoriated in portraits that cut off parts of his face. Yet it was Bacon who committed the literal crime. When Dyer died on the lavatory in the Paris hotel they were staying in, the artist connived in keeping the body hidden for two days lest it spoil the opening of his exhibition.
Yet Bacon remained capable of great and non-sexual friendships, and of acts of kindness, such as lunching Marianne Faithfull when, post Jagger, she was living rough. I spoke to him only once, when the newsdesk asked me to check out a rumour he had died. Somehow, I got his number. He was very polite, and sorry he could not help me “on this occasion”.
Bacon's nanny knew best how to source drugs and gay lovers
Richard Brooks, Arts Editor | The Sunday Times | Sunday, 29 January 2017
Francis Bacon was heartbroken when Jessie Lightfoot died
By any standards, Jessie Lightfoot was no ordinary nanny. She cared for the artist Francis Bacon during his childhood in Ireland and then in later years became his drug dealer, the organiser of his gambling parties and even his pimp.
The extraordinary influence of Lightfoot on Bacon — regarded as the most influential artist of the second half of the 20th century — is revealed in a documentary to be broadcast next Saturday on BBC2.
Sir John Richardson, the art historian, got to know Bacon immediately after the Second World War while living with his mother in Kensington, opposite the artist’s home. “He lived like no one else in the world,” says Richardson in the documentary, Francis Bacon — A Brush with Violence.
“I would go there often. There were a lot of incredibly strong cocktails, so you got plastered pretty quick. Then Nanny would appear and say, ‘Would anybody like something to smoke?’ And this didn’t mean Player’s cigarettes.
“She was totally blind. How on earth she cooked, and how she knew what she was doing, I don’t know. She organised the gambling parties he gave.” Lightfoot also placed adverts in local shops asking for “a gentleman’s gentleman” — a euphemism for young lovers for the gay Bacon.
Nanny Lightfoot then went with Bacon to live in the south of France but died in 1951. “Francis was heartbroken,” according to Richardson. “She was his adviser. She ran his life, and so after her death he had to depend on himself.”
Later, when Bacon was living in Reece Mews in South Kensington, the actor Terence Stamp, who was famed for roles in Billy Budd and Far from the Madding Crowd, got to know him through a mutual friend, the musicals composer Lionel Bart.
“Lionel, who lived very close to Bacon, told me that in his kitchen were loads of pictures of me,” Stamp recalls.
“He then told Lionel that the two handsomest men in the world were Terence Stamp and Colonel Gadaffi. And I thought Gadaffi would give him a good hiding.”
Stamp, decidedly heterosexual, got to know Bacon well and would often visit him at his home.
The singer Marianne Faithfull, who had a relationship with Mick Jagger in the 1960s, also recalls her gratitude to Bacon for taking her out when she was in a bad way on drugs after her split from the singer.
“Francis would take me to Wheeler’s [a restaurant in Soho] and feed me,” she says.
Francis Bacon: A Brush With Violence, BBC Two
Portrait of the artist as disaster
Adam Sweeting | The Arts Desk | Reviews | Sunday, 29 January 2017
Francis Bacon: 'His work can be seen as a search for God'
Francis Bacon died in April 1992, aged 82, but heaven knows how he managed to live that long. The tortuous story of his life is now fairly well known, but Richard Curson Smith's documentary marshalled a formidable array of critics, biographers and celebs including Marianne Faithfull, Damien Hirst and Terence Stamp to create a portrait of a man capable of effervescent wit and charm, yet fuelled from within by a monstrous darkness.
The film lit the blue touch paper by looking at Bacon's Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion, which, when exhibited in London in 1945, did little to enhance any sense of euphoria at the prospect of a Nazi-free world. Critics and public were shaken by Bacon’s ghastly, misshapen figures, which may look to us now like antecedents of HR Giger’s appalling Alien. Nonetheless, it was clear that a major talent was on the loose, and horror and pain would become familiar traits in his work (below, Bacon's Study for a Self-Portrait – Triptych, 1985-86).
In this telling, Bacon’s progress resembled a mashed-up narrative concocted by the Marquis de Sade, Edgar Allan Poe and Joe Orton. His life could almost be seen as a kind of diabolical experiment, designed to explore ways in which psychological damage can be used as the raw material of artistic genius. His father, Captain Eddy Bacon, was a Boer War veteran and racehorse trainer, who apparently used to order his stable boys to whip his son. Young Francis, meanwhile, admitted to feeling a sexual attraction to his father and enjoyed homosexual romps with the aforesaid grooms (“buggaring in the barn” as Lord Gowrie, one of the talking heads, put it).
He ended up for a time in Weimar Berlin, chaperoned by an exploitative bisexual friend of his father, then moved to Paris, where a Picasso exhibition made a deep impression on him. Back in London, he moved into John Everett Millais’s old house in South Kensington (partially bombed), where he held riotous gambling parties and was attended by his childhood nanny, Jessie Lightfoot. Although blind and forced to sleep on the kitchen table, Nanny Lightfoot diligently supplied visitors with cannabis.
Though we saw scenes of the convivial, bon viveur Bacon (bearing an odd resemblance to Dudley Moore), sometimes babbling enthusiastically in fluent though thoroughly Anglified French, his emotional life was driven by his masochistic urges. He fell into an arduous love affair with ex-Spitfire pilot and sadist Peter Lacy, who beat him mercilessly and (as one contributor recalled) once hurled the artist through a second-floor window. In later years he became infatuated with George Dyer, an East End criminal and acquaintance of the Krays, but instead of the brutal, dominant lover Bacon wanted, the disappointing Dyer was a borderline alcoholic who suffered from erectile dysfunction.
Yet Dyer’s suicide in Paris in 1971, as Bacon launched a major exhibition at the Grand Palais, shocked the artist deeply, and prompted some of his most powerful work including the “Black Triptychs”, which fixated on the Dyer suicide in agonising close-up. Artist and friend Maggi Hambling (pictured above), in one of several astute comments, noted how it was almost considered “a dirty habit” to go and look at Bacon’s paintings, and also pointed out how he defied the prevailing tides of abstract expressionism and “American stuff” to concentrate on depictions of the human body. Bacon’s instinct proved unerring, as his legacy of screaming popes and crucifixion scenes, Figure with Meat, the Study for a Self-Portrait – Triptych, 1985-86 and his sequence of late landscapes attests.
In the end, could some sort of salvation be dragged from the wreckage? Hambling suggested that “his work can be seen as a search for God,” while art critic John Richardson reckoned that Bacon is now seen “almost as a religious painter”. He certainly wouldn’t have been deterred by the prospect of flagellation and crucifixion.
Francis Bacon: A Brush With
Violence was a riotous ride but didn’t quite get the full picture
Jeff Robson | Television | News | Saturday 28 January 2017
The documentary portrayed a fascinating, but ultimately elusive, personality
As Amazon launched its lavish treatment of the Zelda Fitzgerald story, another tortured artist got the full-blown BBC documentary treatment.
BBC2’s Francis Bacon: A Brush with Violence focused on the life and work of the man who, 25 years after his death remains one of the most fascinating and sought-after British painters, as much known for his riotous private life as his rawly disturbing canvases.
It assembled a fine array of talking heads and contemporary footage, but didn’t tell me much I didn’t know already – the “block of ice” childhood in Ireland, the Soho carousing, the violent and/or low-life boyfriends who fulfilled a sado-masochistic urge.
Impossible to make dull
It’s a story that’s impossible to make dull and there were a feast of choice quotes and reminiscences – Bacon described how one painting arose when he “started off trying to do a gorilla” and Marianne Faithfull matter-of-factly described how they became friends because he “walked past the wall where I was living” every day.
But I’d have liked to known more about his working methods and the influences which enabled him to combine the classical figurative tradition with an abstract vividness and savagery in works that still look groundbreaking – and unnerving – 70 years on.
In the end his true personality remained elusive, subsumed into the image of the charming, eccentric bon vivant. Which, I suspect, is exactly how he would have wanted it.
Francis Bacon - A Brush with Violence
BBC MEDIA CENTRE | Saturday 28 January 2017
BBC 2 | 9 pm | 1 hour, 19 minutes
Francis Bacon was the loudest, rudest, drunkest and most sought-after British artist of the 20th century.
Francis Bacon was the loudest, rudest, drunkest, most sought after British artist of the 20th century. 25 years after his death, his canvases regularly exceed £40million at auction. Bacon's appeal is rooted in his notoriety - a candid image he presented of himself as Roaring Boy, Lord of Misrule and Conveyor of Artistic Violence.
This was true enough, but only part of the truth. He carefully cultivated the facade, protecting the complex and haunted man behind the myth. In this unique, compelling film, those who knew him speak freely, some for the first time, to reveal the many mysteries of Francis Bacon.
Contributors include Michael Peppiatt, Nadine Haim, John Richardson, Marianne Faithfull, Terence Stamp, Grey Gowrie, Maggi Hambling, Paul Brass and Martin Harrison.
Saturday's best TV: Francis Bacon - A Brush with Violence
9pm, BBC 2
A revealing documentary profiles the hellraising painter
The Guardian | Saturday 28 January 2017
Since his death in 1992, Francis Bacon has come to be regarded as among the greatest of 20th-century British painters, his violently figurative artwork timelessly unnerving. He was also something of a Soho hellraiser, a “Lord Of Misrule”. This, however, was a facade, to protect his truer, more complex private self, as this revealing documentary shows. Contributors include Marianne Faithfull, Terence Stamp, Maggi Hambling and Damien Hirst. David Stubbs
John Hurt interview: 'alcoholic is a silly word'
In this interview, which originally ran on December 15, 2015, John Hurt talks to Gaby Wood about gossiping, his battle with cancer, and the irresistible allure of Soho in the Fifties
Gaby Wood | Culture | The Telegraph | Saturday 28 January 2017
Hurt in The Elephant Man
Before I meet John Hurt, the PR who has set up the interview informs me that there is one subject I absolutely must not ask him about. In fact, she suggests, he’s so loath to talk about it that it’s more or less a condition of my meeting him. Please can I promise not to mention his cancer? After a brief discussion of what sort of thing might be considered invasive, we agree that I am allowed to ask him how he’s feeling.
That afternoon, a buoyant Hurt tells me, seconds after shaking my hand, that he’s just come from a treatment. “I’m completely in remission,” he says, as if we were here to celebrate the fact – and perhaps we are, or should be. He orders a black coffee and a glass of red wine. Far from being reluctant, Hurt is only too keen to tell me about his new lease of life. Who wouldn’t be? After being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer earlier this year, he underwent a hefty six-month therapy; he now has gentler, preventative treatments once a fortnight, and thinks even his oncologist is surprised he’s clear.
Hurt says he feels better now than he did before he was ill. And although he had to accept quite quickly that he had “a nasty one”, it never occurred to him that it wouldn’t disappear. “People say it’s the attitude. But I don’t put on an attitude. I just knew it wasn’t supposed to be there. You think: well, supposing it hadn’t gone away – people would just think you were in denial and rather silly. Just like footballers, when they take a long shot and it goes nowhere near the goal, people say: oh well how ridiculous, such an ambitious shot from such a long way out. But if it goes in, they say: what a goal!!” At this, Hurt propels himself out of his armchair like a rabid football fan, laughing and cheering with all his chesty voice.
If confirmation were needed, it might be found in Hurt’s thoroughly dapper dress sense. Today he’s wearing a charcoal tweed ensemble, with a flat cap and a faint herringbone pattern in his sharp-lapelled jacket. There’s a pale grey paisley shirt, proper braces with leather trim, and round tortoiseshell glasses. The whole look suggests the Artful Dodger has grown up and turned into James Joyce.
Hurt is now 75, and over a career that began in the first years of the 1960s, he has played a vast range of roles on large and small screens, from a flame-haired and florid Quentin Crisp and the proud, disfigured Elephant Man to a balding, drug-addicted prisoner and a spaceship captain impregnated by an alien. He’s not averse to fun – children of all ages will remember him as the man who sells Harry Potter his first wand, and his unmistakably gravelly voice in the Seventies animations of Watership Down and Lord of the Rings. But he has also played something more consistent: variations on a particular sort of buttoned-up Brit with an unreadable hinterland and an incalculable proximity to power – whether it’s a well-connected doctor (Stephen Ward in Scandal), a Tory MP (the eponymous hero of Alan Clark’s Diaries), or the head of the British Intelligence service (in Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy).
After a childhood he describes as being governed by fear – his father was a vicar, and he was “beaten and thrashed” at school – Hurt came to London as an art student. He knew it wasn’t what he wanted to do, but St Martin’s School of Art was on Charing Cross Road, and the nearest place to get a drink was Soho. There, in the late Fifties, he found a world that was “more sympatico than anything I’d ever met in any church ever”. Alcohol released his mind “from religion, from the Fifties, from the Forties”, and although it’s often said that drink contributed to the breakdown of some of Hurt’s marriages (he is now on number four), he says he has never been an alcoholic. “I think those are silly terms,” he suggests. “To my generation the jokes were: 'Are you a drunk? No, I can’t drink enough.’ The word was 'dipsomaniac’.”
Soho, he says was “the first place that I put my trust in”. “The place was stacked with talent, and basically good feeling for people. They weren’t there to bring each other down.” He spent time with the artists: Francis Bacon, Lucian Freud, Frank Auerbach, the two Scottish Roberts, MacBryde and Colquhoun. (Hurt still paints – “in fact,” he says, “it’s rather more important than acting”.) One afternoon, after “the morning session, as we called it”, Hurt found Bacon on his own at the Colony Room, reading the papers. Or almost on his own – the formidable landlady Muriel Belcher was sitting in the corner “like a spider.” “Mmmm,” said Bacon, apropos of nothing, “When Pablo [Picasso] dies, I’ll be Number One.”
Hurt’s impersonation of Bacon is impeccably camp. He interrupts himself to laugh at it. “You see, I can’t do the difference between him and Quentin Crisp, I’m afraid. They all come out the same, these queens!”
Another friend was Jeffrey Bernard, whom Hurt played this past summer in a Radio 4 adaptation of Keith Waterhouse’s play, Jeffrey Bernard is Unwell. Hurt says he was offered the lead in the original 1989 West End production before Peter O’Toole, but turned it down. “I think the original play missed the danger of it,” he remembers. “It might have been the way I was when I read it – you never know. But it seemed to me that it was too funny. It IS a little on the flippant side. But somehow, as the years have gone by, and when I did it for the radio, it worked.”
Our conversation strays – into quips about his age (“The portrait has fallen from the attic, heftily”); regrets that he hasn’t served his own sons (now 25 and 22) well enough because his marriage to their mother broke down; his contention that Ian McKellen wrecked his performance as Hamlet, back in 1978, “by silliness”. The PR offers a final, nervous prompt to say something about The Last Panthers, and requests that we not give away the ending. “Don’t worry darling,” Hurt pipes up, “I can’t remember it!” He turns to me. “I’m the worst gossip in town,” he says, as if the previous hour had not passed in reminiscence, “I remember nothing.”
A spoonful of brown sugar
The Sunday Times | January 22 2017
The idea that Mary Poppins was the perfect nanny must infuriate childcare professionals. As we know from the film, she not only takes her children to dance with chimney sweeps on the rooftops of London — contravening all the latest thinking about the safety and welfare of young people — but she also offers unregulated financial advice that causes a run on the banks.
Yet it seems there was a nanny who was even more mischievous and irresponsible. A BBC documentary will reveal this week that Jessie Lightfoot, nanny to the artist Francis Bacon, looked after him into adulthood, supplying him with drugs, arranging gambling parties and organising his love life.
A nanny is for life. Winston Churchill never forgot Elizabeth Everest, who cared for him as a child. He was by her side when she died. The nanny of the Tory MP Jacob Rees-Mogg now looks after his own children and canvassed for him at election time. The BBC’s revelations explain much about Bacon’s rackety life. When nanny orders you to drink, gamble and take lovers, who would be brave enough to refuse?
Lucian Freud, Francis Bacon: Fraught friendship and art
Rosamma Thomas | Times of India | January 22 2017
JAIPUR: Of all reasons to turn down an invitation to a wedding, this must take the cake - artist Lucian freud, once invited to a wedding, was forced to decline because he had slept not just with the bride, but also the groom and the mother-in-law! This was one juicy nugget that emerged during a discussion at the Jaipur Literature Festival on Sunday on the book 'Art of Rivalry' by Pulitzer-winning art critic Sebastian Smee.
Smee's book is about the relationship between four pairs of artists. On Sunday, he chose to dwell on the fraught ties between Lucien Freud, grandson of the famous psychoanalyst, and Irish-born painter Francis Bacon.
Bacon was older than Freud by a decade or so. It was clear that the older artist was held somewhat in awe by Freud. Through a series of carefully chosen slides, Smee commented on how the artistic styles of Bacon and Freud were so different - yet their lives were woven together through strange bonds of deep friendship that later soured.
Smee said Freud, who died in 2011, had admitted to him that he had once got so riled by a violent lover of Bacon's, who had thrown him out of the window and left him with an eye that almost dangled out of his face. Angry at the violence, Freud had held the lover by the collar - but he later realized that even the violence was some form of sexual expression that he did not quite understand. The relationship between the two artists was marred irrevocably by this "intrusion".
end of the session, some members of the audience wanted to know if it was indeed
helpful to assess an artist on the basis of his life. Smee said in response that
it was not as if, standing in front of a work of art, one can infer anything
about the artist's life. Even so, he said, contemplating the life afterwards,
one might glean some important insights. He spoke with great appreciation for
Matisse, who he said was doing such amazing things with colour at a time when he
was also troubled in his personal life.
Rajalaxmi Kamat, who was at JLF from Bangalore, said, "This is one session that I will remember for long. This is what I shall take away with me from this festival."
Francis Bacon's Screaming Popes now on display at Ferens Art Gallery
By HANNAH ROBINSON | HULL DAILY MAIL | JANUARY 20, 2017
"Painting is the pattern of one's own nervous system projected onto canvas".
Five iconic paintings from a leading British painter are officially on display from today - showing how far Ferens Art Gallery has come with its ability to fund and hold major exhibitions.
The Francis Bacon: Nervous System will be displayed alongside the permanent collection at Ferens in Gallery 9 after the venue secured a £70,000 grant from the Heritage Lottery Fund.
Bacon's widely acknowledged masterpiece, Head VI, 1949, will act as the centrepiece of the display on a year-long loan from the Arts Council Collection. It will be accompanied, until 1 May, by four others from his "Screaming Pope" series.
Kirsten Simister, curator of art at the Ferens Art Gallery, said: "We are extremely grateful to our lenders and the Heritage Lottery Fund who have made it possible to bring these exceptional works to Hull audiences this year.
"It is amazing to show Bacon's extraordinary 20th century secular paintings at the same time as the equally extraordinary 14th-century sacred paintings by Lorenzetti and his Sienese contemporaries."
The additional 'Screaming Pope' loans come from the collections of Aberdeen Art Gallery, The Sainsbury Centre for Visual Arts, Norwich and a private collection.
"This has always been a painting in high demand and we never managed to get it to Hull until it was announced we were going to be UK City of Culture 2017," she said.
"I immediately thought it would be a good idea to contact them again and they said yes. It is a juxtaposition between the religious work of the Lorenzetti and the atheism of Bacon. It is wonderful to have and has massively exceeded my expectations."
Bacon is known for his darkly visceral, yet striking portraits. The five powerful canvases convey the darker side of the human condition suggesting what lies beneath everyday life.
Bacon himself expressed his working processes in very direct terms stating: "Painting is the pattern of one's own nervous system projected onto canvas."
Drawing from varied sources including photography, film and Surrealism, Bacon was also inspired by the Old Masters and in this case Diego Velazquez's 17th century portrait of Pope Innocent X.
The artworks will be shown alongside highlights from the Ferens' strong modern and contemporary portrait collection from the last 100 years including Wyndham Lewis' iconic and deliberately repellent Self-Portrait As a Tyro of 1920-21.
Councillor Terry Geraghty, portfolio holder for culture and leisure and chairman of Hull Culture and Leisure Limited, said: "The display of these spectacular art works underscores the very reason for undertaking the major investment in the Gallery that has just been completed.
"With the new environmentally controlled galleries, the Ferens is able to display the work of internationally acclaimed artists amongst its very own permanent collection displays.
"These Francis Bacon loans make a powerful dramatic statement to open our UK City of Culture year."
free to all Hull City Council's museums and art gallery, and are open Monday to
Saturday from 10am to 5pm and Sunday from 11am to 4.30pm. The Maritime Museum
and Ferens Art Gallery is also open until 7.30pm every Thursday.
Kirklees Council scraps proposed Francis Bacon sale
Installation view, Francis Bacon: From Picasso to Velázquez, Guggenheim Bilbao, 30 September - 8 January 2017
Francis Bacon: From Picasso to Velázquez at the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao, curated by Martin Harrison, is conceivably one of the most significant Bacon exhibitions to date. It features a number of paintings on which little is known and some that have never been exhibited. The exhibition is timely, occurring after the publication of the masterly five-volume catalogue raisonné (edited by Harrison), which unveiled these new or later works. Many Bacon exhibitions to date have focused on a core of well known works and so it is refreshing to see relatively unknown works, especially ‘Sea’ (c. 1953) and ‘Landscape near Malabata, Tangier’ (1963), and indeed forecasts exciting times ahead.
The exhibition is outstanding in the sheer range of work shown, surveying more than six decades of Bacon’s painting. While most are from Bacon’s later career, his earliest works from 1929 to 1933 are also exhibited. One of his erstwhile ‘crucifixions’ from 1933 is displayed, retitled as ‘After Picasso, ‘La Danse’ (1933), which we learn from the catalogue raisonné was never intended to be conceived of as a crucifixion. The relative technical simplicity of these early works makes the contrast with those from the mid-1940s stark. The rooms focus on different themes – ‘Human Cages’, ‘Isolated Figures’ and ‘Exposed Bodies’. One of the galleries showcases the power of his portraits, including self-portraits, all painted with ferocious intensity and stark simplicity. This is complemented by additions by Alberto Giacometti and Chaïm Soutine.
The focus of this exhibition is on the continental European, mainly Spanish, connection. Bacon’s Francophilia is noted here and, not least through the recent Monaco exhibition, ‘Francis Bacon, Monaco and French Culture’. However, acknowledgement of the influence of Spanish culture has been overdue. The influence of Pablo Picasso, especially his biomorphic bather forms of the late 1920s, which has been well documented, lasted for about a decade from 1933. The exhibition also features Picasso’s cubist works as well as those of his contemporaries, such as Juan Gris. The fragmentation of form, characteristic of these works, provides an interesting parallel with Bacon’s own aesthetic of distortion.
Velázquez’s ‘Portrait of Innocent X’ (1650), itself not present in the exhibition, was a landmark painting for Bacon, evident in his amassing of multiple copies of the painting in his studio. These were the basis of his inspiration for multiple works. Whilst declaring it to be one of the greatest paintings, he did not actually see it first-hand when visiting Rome, preferring instead to consult reproductions. The papal theme is explored in conventional portrayals by other artists, which collectively underscore the aberrance of Bacon’s pontiffs. Other religious works by a host of Spanish artists exhibited include José de Ribera, Francisco de Zurbarán and Bartolomé Esteban Murillo. While their depictions contrast with Bacon apropos the religious tenor of ‘Saint Paul the Hermit’, ‘The Crucified Christ with a Donor’ and ‘Saint Peter in Tears’, they share with Bacon raw intensity brought about by the use of the pared down image of a spectral figure emerging out of darkness.
A separate room features Francisco de Goya’s ‘Tauromachy’ series of 1816, which served as a counterpart to and summary of Bacon’s overarching preoccupations with the shadow of death on life. Bacon spoke of his interest in bullfighting and painted a couple of bullfighting scenes in the 1960s. The final painting he worked on before his death is ‘Study of a Bull’ (1991).
One of the highlights of the show, and quite a thrill it is, is the virtual reality headset which reveals a three-dimensional view of Bacon’s studio (7 Reece Mews) and literally brings Bacon into the digital age. The opportunity for immersion into Bacon’s private space is an unexpected but welcome treat. This is part of a continuing trend to acknowledge the working practices of Bacon – his sketches, ‘drawings’, sources and other integral material aspects of his practice. The leather cases containing ‘detritus’ found in Reece Mews capture the vitality of his working environment and pinpoint his sources of creativity.
LONDON CALLING: RAW BACON
OCTOBER 18, 2016
Why do we find sexuality a taboo
subject in our culture? It is what creates life and yet can be a destructive
force for many, a primordial unity for others and for all there is an element of
sacrifice. The French call it La Petite Mort (The Little Death), Marcelle
Hanselaar's series of etchings by this name have been were an early influence on
me. I feel much of life comes down to this tiny demise, figurative painting by
the London School in particular Bacon and Freud capture this so well.
Each relationship is structured
differently and for conventional morality to get in the way of others happiness
is ludicrous. For instance, it’s hard to believe not so long ago Homosexuality
was not allowed, in fact it was illegal, as Francis Bacon’s work vividly
demonstrates, during the creation of Reclining Woman 1961 (on display in
this exhibition) the figure was suppose to be male, presumably his lover at the
time, and in order to not be found out for his crimes he painted over the penis
to make the figure appear female. This was the case with a number of his
portraits up until the Sexual Offenses Act of 1967 allowed homosexual
relationships in private. These works offer some exposure, revealing some things
that are strange and difficult in our nature, yet I believe
Bacon is so present in all his
paintings, the canvas and the subject are reflections of himself, there is no
distance between himself and the painting. The same could be said of his lovers,
his willingness to express a violent space even in the most casual ways is not
an intimidation, but an invitation. He wanted to instigate the other, his way
Though since Sigmund Freud the
revelation that a person's sexuality informs so much about their behaviour, the
sexuality of Freud and Bacon standing in parallel opposition to each
other, respectively extreme cases of both, Freud having potentially fathered 54
children (though only 14 of them confirmed publicly). Says something very
fundamental about the way they see their subjects. For Freud he is like the
observer, with a penetrating eye wishing to see his subject at their most
vulnerable, to deeply understand them for the individuals they are. For Bacon he
wishes to inspire his subjects for them to fight back at him, Freud wishing to
subdue his subject.
"It's true to say when you paint
anything you are also painting not only the subject but you are also painting
yourself as well as the object that your trying to record" - Francis Bacon
There is, I feel, in my father
Peter Fuller's perception of Bacon a fear of the humiliation of his gaze, and to
meet Bacon would in itself be a violent act without any physical manifestations
taking place. The mutilation that would occur in the mind alone would be enough
to warrant a skepticism of his work. My father saw a threat in Bacon's pictures,
that he thought only a concern with the grotesque could entertain. And he walked
with this weight, the underlying value that their cannot be dignity in
roughness. I don't believe roughness should be shied away from, but wholly
embraced in order to fully live.
Here is where me and my father
differ, on painters like Bacon, roughness, adrenaline, immediacy are all vital
parts to an actors craft. An actor has only their humanity to bear, it's all
they have to offer, even in the flesh, skin deep, blood flowing moment the actor
finds their true self and that is what they bring to the world. Immediacy and
sponteity are key aspects to Bacon's work. In acting there is a necessary
ugliness, not in order to shock but in order to reveal, the best actors are
emotionally naked, they've put themselves bare faced onto the world's stage,
their ideas, their feelings and their unique individual song and if they've
stayed the course they've been subject to all the ridicule the Western world has
to offer in its competitive nature and still they stand in front of the camera
lens, brave and naked. Daniel Day-Lewis said that it is "very hard to have any
dignity as an actor" though he has tried for both, and in contradiction has
revealed his soul through the life of another. There's this idea that actors are
like meat puppets or narcissists, and all that they say is in order to sell
themselves, and yes indeed the profession does attract many people like this,
but the truly great actors know that there is not enough of their own humanity
to bear to fill the void of the swelling mob as they seek love in another, and
humility in the face of this is their only option, a constant, unending
sacrifice of dignity, all the while struggling to pick it back up. I feel this
same dichotomy is present in Bacon's pictures and in our relationship to
Bacon said that he would to have
liked to make some films towards the end of his life, painting solely from
photographs and raw emotions, his subjects are reimagined first through a lens
and then with the brush. American films are far more accepting of portrayals of
violence, than they are depictions of sexuality, the naked human form is judged
far more harshly by the censors than that same form being blown to bits by a
machine gun. I believe that this is a mistake in our culture.
In the famous interview between
David Sylvester and Francis Bacon, Sylvester suggests that Hockney is the
antithesis of Bacon. And if as I have suggested in the past London based
expressionist artist Marcelle Hanselaar is in line with Bacon, certainly one
that that they share is this sense of theatricality in their work. I remember
talking to Marcelle Hanselaar in this interview about the comparisons between
theatre and painting. When I asked Marcelle 'Do you think shocking images will
captivate people more?' she responded "I think because an image is artificial
what you do on a canvas, you try to grab a whole life or a whole situation
really on a square or rectangular piece. So of course it's like theatre you have
to dramatize it, it has to be intensified, because otherwise people for the same
money will just look at the wall and think 'nice wallpaper'". We discussed how
in the mise-en-scène, the situation which we find her characters there is quite
often a social dynamic whether its a lone figure caught in the act of something
or multiple figures and they are caught, Marcelle told me that this sense of
theatricality comes from a need to create an immediacy in her work, something
Bacon was continually concerned with.
Yet there is a decided difference
between what Bacon and Hanselaar call immediacy and theatricality, and the kind
that Hockney puts to use in his work. It's much the same subjective approached
from completely different corners.
An actor friend told me recently
that I maintain a kind of stoic position to life in spite of it all, I feel in
full consideration of the moment of death it becomes very difficult not to value
the preciousness of life. "It is not death that a man should fear, but he should
fear never beginning to live” - Marcus Aurelius. Bacon had much the same outlook
when he suggested to David Sylvester that life life is so much sweeter to this
who walk in the shadow of death because it can be taken away at any moment.
My father, who defended the
preciousness of life, would constantly tell his friends that he was going to die
young and would go about his work leaving the legacy that he did by the age of
42, with a kind of franticness, which is now recited back to me by those same
friends as an ironic part of his story. I believe this stoic awareness of death
was a vital aspect to his point of view on art. Though in the case of Bacon he
defended the dignity of the image by bearing his own demons on paper and
allowing the images to speak to the most vulnerable parts of ourselves,
therefore he had a difficult relationship to Bacon's paintings:
Their heads are eyeless and tiny.
Their mouths, huge. Two of them are baring their teeth. All have long,
stalk-like necks. The one on the left, hunched on a table, has the sacked torso
of a mutilated woman; the body of the centre creature is more like an inflated
abdomen propped up on flamingo legs behind an empty pedestal; the third could be
a cross between a lion and an ox: its single front leg disappears into a patch
of scrawny grass.
They exude a sense of nature’s
errors; errors caused by some unspeakable genetic pollution, embroidered with
physical wounding. One has a white bandage where its eyes might have been. All
are an ominous grey, tinted with fleshly pinks: they are set off against
backgrounds of garish orange containing suggestions of unspecified architectural
Francis Bacon painted this
triptych, Three Studies for Figures at the Base o f a Crucifixion, now in
the Tate Gallery, in 1944. It was first exhibited at the Lefevre Gallery the
following April, where it hung alongside works by Moore, Sutherland and others
who had sought to redeem the horrors of war through the consolations of art.
Although Bacon referred to traditional religious iconography, he did not wish to
console anyone about anything. Indeed, he seemed to want to rub the nose of the
dog of history in its own excrement.
When the Three Studies was
first shown, the war was ending and it was spring. Bacon was out of tune with
the mood of his times. Certainly, as far as the fashionable movements in art
were concerned, he was to remain so. And yet his star steadily ascended. By the
late 1950s he was one of an elite handful of ‘distinguished British artists’.
Today his stature among contemporary painters seems unassailable. And yet Bacon
- who recently held an exhibition of new work at Marlborough Fine Art to mark
the publication by Phaidon of a major monograph, Francis Bacon, by Michel
Leiris - must be the most difficult of all living painters to evaluate justly.
His work is so extreme it seems to demand an equally extreme response.
Bacon has always denied that he
set out to emphasise horror or violence. In a chilling series of interviews
conducted by David Sylvester, he qualified this by saying, ‘I’ve always hoped to
put over things as directly and rawly as I possibly can, and perhaps, if a thing
comes across directly, people feel that that is horrific.’ He explained that
people ‘tend to be offended by facts, or what used to be called truth.’ He has
repeatedly said that his work has no message, meaning or statement to make
beyond the revelation of that naked truth.
Bacon’s serious critics have
largely gone along with his own view of his painting. Michel Leiris, a personal
friend of the painter’s, is no exception; Leiris argues that Bacon presents us
with a radically demystified art, ‘cleansed both of its religious halo and its
moral dimension’. Again and again, Leiris calls Bacon a ‘realist’, who strips
down the thing he is looking at in a way which retains ‘only its naked reality’.
He echoes Bacon himself in arguing that his pictures have no hidden depths and
call for no interpretation ‘other than the apprehension of what is immediately
No doubt the ‘horror’ has been
overdone in popular and journalistic responses to Bacon. But it is just as naive
to think Bacon is simply recording visual facts, let alone transcribing ‘truth’.
Creatures like those depicted in Three Studies can no more be observed
slouching around London streets than haloes can be seen above the heads of good
men, or angels in our skies. Of course Bacon’s violent imagination distorts what
But the clash between Bacon’s
supporters and the populists cannot be dismissed as easily as that. The point
remains whether Bacon’s distortions are indeed revelatory of a significant truth
about men and women beyond the facts of their appearances; or whether they are
simply a horrible assault upon our image of ourselves and each other, pursued
for sensationalist effects. And this, whether Bacon and his friends like it or
not, involves us in questions of interpretation, value and meaning.
The stature of Bacon’s achievement
from the most unpropitious beginnings is not to be denied. Although his father
named his only son after their ancestor, the Elizabethan philosopher of sweet
reason, he was himself an unreasonable and tyrannical man, a racehorse trainer
by profession. Nonetheless, Francis, a sickly and asthmatic child, felt sexually
attracted to him. Francis received no conventional schooling and left home at
sixteen, following an incident in which he was discovered trying on his mother’s
He worked in menial jobs before
briefly visiting Berlin and Paris in the late 1920s; soon after, he began
painting and drawing, at first without real commitment, direction or success. In
the early 1930s, he was better known as a derivative designer of modern rugs and
furniture, although an early Crucifixion, in oils, was reproduced by
Herbert Read in Art Now. Bacon subsequently destroyed almost all his
early work; his public career thus effectively began only with the exhibition
of Three Studies in 1944.
Bacon then began to produce the
paintings for which he has become famous: at first there were some figures in a
landscape; but soon he moved definitively indoors. He displayed splayed bodies,
surrounded by tubular furniture of the kind he had once designed, in silent
interiors. A fascination with the crucifix and triptych format continued; but he
painted the naked, human body - usually male - in all sorts of situations of
struggle, suffering and embuggerment. A picture of two naked figures wrestling
on a bed of 1953 is surely among his best. But a series of variations on
Velazquez’s Portrait o f Pope Innocent X - which he now regrets - became
among his most celebrated. By the 1960s, the echoes of religious iconography and
the Grand Tradition of painting had become more muted. Bacon could never be
accused of ‘intimism’ : ‘homeliness’ is one of the qualities he hates most. The
large, bloody, set-piece interiors continued; but the forms of their figures
became less energetic, more statuesque. Bacon seemed increasingly preoccupied
with portraits, usually in a triptych format, of his friends and associates:
Isabel Rawsthorne, Henrietta Moraes, Lucian Freud, George Dyer (his lover),
Muriel Belcher, the owner of a drinking club in Soho he frequented, and himself.
Bacon has repeatedly said that he
is not an ‘expressionist’; it is easy to show what he means by this by
contrasting his work with that of the currently fashionable, but lesser, painter
George Baselitz (at the Whitechapel Gallery) - who is. Baselitz deals with a
similar subject matter; but he invariably handles paint in an ‘abstract
expressionist’ manner; i.e. in a way which refers not so much to his subjects as
to his own activity and sentiments as an artist. Anatomy, physiognomy, gesture
and the composition of an architectural illusion of space mean nothing to him:
to Bacon, they are everything. Or rather almost everything.
For if he has sought to work in
continuity with the High Art of the past, Bacon recognises that the painter,
today, is in fact in a very different position. He has regretted the absence of
a ‘valid myth’ within which to work: ‘When you’re outside tradition, as every
artist is today, one can only want to record one’s own feelings about certain
situations as closely to one’s nervous system as one possibly can.’
He stresses that the echoes of
religion in his pictures are intended to evoke no residue of spiritual values;
Bacon is a man for whom Cimabue’s great Crucifixion is no more than an
image of ‘a worm crawling down the cross’. He is interested in the crucifix for
the same reason he is fascinated by meat and slaughterhouses; and also for its
compositional possibilities: ‘The central figure of Christ is raised into a very
pronounced and isolated position, which gives it, from a formal point of view,
greater possibilities than having all the different figures placed on the same
level. The alteration of level is, from my point of view, very important.’ But,
for Bacon, the myths of vicarious sacrifice, incarnation, redemption,
resurrection, salvation and victory over death mean nothing - even as consoling
The appeal to a meaningful
religious iconography is, in effect, replaced in his work by an appeal to
photography; similarly, in his pictures, as in his life, the myth of a jealous
and omnipotent god has been replaced by the arbitrary operations of chance.
Bacon’s fascination with
Muybridge’s sequential photographs of men, women and animals in motion is
well-known. References to specific Muybridge images are often discernible in his
pictures; even his triptych format seems to relate more to them than to
traditional altarpieces. He seems to believe that Muybridge exposed the
illusions of art, and freed it from the need to construct such illusions in the
future. Unlike many who reached similar conclusions, they did not, of course,
lead Bacon to narrow aestheticism or abstraction. Rather, he sometimes insists
that the artist should become even more ‘realist’ than the photographer, by
getting yet closer to the object; and, at others, that as a result of
photography’s annexation of appearance, good art today has become just a game.
But this insistence on ‘realism’,
and reduction of art to its ludic and aleatory aspects, are not, in Bacon’s
philosophy, necessarily opposed. Accident and chance play a central role in his
pursuit of ‘realistic’ images of men; they enter into his painting technique
through his reliance on throwing and splattering. In fact, of course, Bacon
exercises a consummate control over the effects chance gives him; but, as he
once said, ‘I want a very ordered image, but I want it to come about by chance.’
He fantasizes about the creation of a masterpiece by means of accident. The
religious artists of the High Tradition attributed their ‘inspiration’ to
impersonal agencies, like the muses or gods; and Bacon, too, is possessed of an
overwhelming need to locate the origins of his own imaginative activity outside
The role of photography and chance
in his creative process relate immediately to the view of man he is seeking to
realise. ‘Man,’ he has said, ‘now realizes that he is an accident, that he is a
completely futile being, that he has to play out the game without reason.’ Thus,
in reducing itself to ‘a game by which man distracts himself’ (rather than a
purveyor of moral or spiritual values) art more accurately reflects the human
situation even than photography . . . The human situation, that is, as seen by
Bacon then has achieved something
quite extraordinary. He has used the shell of the High Tradition of European
painting to express, in form as much as in content, a view of man which is
utterly at odds with everything that tradition proclaims and affirms. Moreover,
it must be admitted that he has done so to compelling effect. It is perfectly
possible to fault Bacon, technically and formally: he has a tendency to
‘fill-in’ his backgrounds with bland expanses of colour; recently, he has not
always proved able to escape the trap of self-parody, leading to mannerism and
stereotyping of some of his forms. But these are quibbles. Bacon, in interviews,
has good reason constantly to refer back to the formal aspects of his work; he
is indeed the master of them.
But this cannot be the end of the
matter in our evaluation of him. Leiris maintains his ‘realism’ lies in his
image of ‘man dispossessed of any durable paradise . . . able to contemplate
himself clear-sightedly’. But is it ‘realistic’ to have a Baconian vision of man
closer to that of a side of streaky pig’s meat, skewered at random, than to
anything envisaged by his rational ancestor?
Nor can we evade the fact that
Bacon’s view of man is consonant with the way he lives his life. He emerges from
his many interviews as a man with no religious beliefs, no secular ethical
values, no faith in human relationships, and no meaningful social or political
values either. ‘All life,’ he says, ‘is completely artificial, but I think that
what is called social justice makes it more pointlessly artificial . . . Who
remembers or cares about a happy society?’ One may sympathise with Bacon because
death wiped out so many of his significant relationships; but his life seems to
have been dedicated to futility and chance. It has been said that, for him, the
inner city is a ‘sexual gymnasium’. He is obsessed with roulette, and the milieu
of Soho drinking clubs. He wants to live in ‘gilded squalor’ in a state of
‘exhilarated despair’. He is not so much honest as appallingly frank about his
And it is, of course, just such a
view of man which Bacon made so powerfully real through his painterly skills.
Because he refuses the ‘expressionist’ option, he also relinquishes that
‘redemption through form’ which characterises Soutine’s carcasses of beef, or
Rouault’s prostitutes. But it may, nonetheless, be that there is something more
to life than the spasmodic activities of perverse hunks of meat in closed rooms.
And perhaps, even if the gods are dead, there are secular values more profound
and worthwhile than the random decisions of the roulette wheel.
I believe there are; and so I
cannot accept Bacon as the great realist of our time. He is a good painter: he
is arguably the nearest to a great one to have emerged in Britain since the last
war. (Though I believe Frank Auerbach and Leon Kossoff are better.) Nonetheless,
in the end, I find the vision of man he uses his undeniable painterly talents to
express quite odious. We are not
mere victims of chance; we possess imagination - or the capacity to
conceive of the world other than the way it is. We also have powers of moral
choice, and relatively effective action, whether or not we believe in God. And
so I turn away from Bacon’s work with a sense of disgust, and relief: relief
that it gives us neither the ‘facts’ nor the necessary ‘truth’ about our
LONDON CALLING: RAW BACON
OCTOBER 18, 2016
Why do we find sexuality a taboo subject in our culture? It is what creates life and yet can be a destructive force for many, a primordial unity for others and for all there is an element of sacrifice. The French call it La Petite Mort (The Little Death), Marcelle Hanselaar's series of etchings by this name have been were an early influence on me. I feel much of life comes down to this tiny demise, figurative painting by the London School in particular Bacon and Freud capture this so well.
Each relationship is structured differently and for conventional morality to get in the way of others happiness is ludicrous. For instance, it’s hard to believe not so long ago Homosexuality was not allowed, in fact it was illegal, as Francis Bacon’s work vividly demonstrates, during the creation of Reclining Woman 1961 (on display in this exhibition) the figure was suppose to be male, presumably his lover at the time, and in order to not be found out for his crimes he painted over the penis to make the figure appear female. This was the case with a number of his portraits up until the Sexual Offenses Act of 1967 allowed homosexual relationships in private. These works offer some exposure, revealing some things that are strange and difficult in our nature, yet I believe
Bacon is so present in all his paintings, the canvas and the subject are reflections of himself, there is no distance between himself and the painting. The same could be said of his lovers, his willingness to express a violent space even in the most casual ways is not an intimidation, but an invitation. He wanted to instigate the other, his way of seduction.
Though since Sigmund Freud the revelation that a person's sexuality informs so much about their behaviour, the sexuality of Freud and Bacon standing in parallel opposition to each other, respectively extreme cases of both, Freud having potentially fathered 54 children (though only 14 of them confirmed publicly). Says something very fundamental about the way they see their subjects. For Freud he is like the observer, with a penetrating eye wishing to see his subject at their most vulnerable, to deeply understand them for the individuals they are. For Bacon he wishes to inspire his subjects for them to fight back at him, Freud wishing to subdue his subject.
"It's true to say when you paint anything you are also painting not only the subject but you are also painting yourself as well as the object that your trying to record" - Francis Bacon
There is, I feel, in my father Peter Fuller's perception of Bacon a fear of the humiliation of his gaze, and to meet Bacon would in itself be a violent act without any physical manifestations taking place. The mutilation that would occur in the mind alone would be enough to warrant a skepticism of his work. My father saw a threat in Bacon's pictures, that he thought only a concern with the grotesque could entertain. And he walked with this weight, the underlying value that their cannot be dignity in roughness. I don't believe roughness should be shied away from, but wholly embraced in order to fully live.
Here is where me and my father differ, on painters like Bacon, roughness, adrenaline, immediacy are all vital parts to an actors craft. An actor has only their humanity to bear, it's all they have to offer, even in the flesh, skin deep, blood flowing moment the actor finds their true self and that is what they bring to the world. Immediacy and sponteity are key aspects to Bacon's work. In acting there is a necessary ugliness, not in order to shock but in order to reveal, the best actors are emotionally naked, they've put themselves bare faced onto the world's stage, their ideas, their feelings and their unique individual song and if they've stayed the course they've been subject to all the ridicule the Western world has to offer in its competitive nature and still they stand in front of the camera lens, brave and naked. Daniel Day-Lewis said that it is "very hard to have any dignity as an actor" though he has tried for both, and in contradiction has revealed his soul through the life of another. There's this idea that actors are like meat puppets or narcissists, and all that they say is in order to sell themselves, and yes indeed the profession does attract many people like this, but the truly great actors know that there is not enough of their own humanity to bear to fill the void of the swelling mob as they seek love in another, and humility in the face of this is their only option, a constant, unending sacrifice of dignity, all the while struggling to pick it back up. I feel this same dichotomy is present in Bacon's pictures and in our relationship to sexuality.
Bacon said that he would to have liked to make some films towards the end of his life, painting solely from photographs and raw emotions, his subjects are reimagined first through a lens and then with the brush. American films are far more accepting of portrayals of violence, than they are depictions of sexuality, the naked human form is judged far more harshly by the censors than that same form being blown to bits by a machine gun. I believe that this is a mistake in our culture.
In the famous interview between David Sylvester and Francis Bacon, Sylvester suggests that Hockney is the antithesis of Bacon. And if as I have suggested in the past London based expressionist artist Marcelle Hanselaar is in line with Bacon, certainly one that that they share is this sense of theatricality in their work. I remember talking to Marcelle Hanselaar in this interview about the comparisons between theatre and painting. When I asked Marcelle 'Do you think shocking images will captivate people more?' she responded "I think because an image is artificial what you do on a canvas, you try to grab a whole life or a whole situation really on a square or rectangular piece. So of course it's like theatre you have to dramatize it, it has to be intensified, because otherwise people for the same money will just look at the wall and think 'nice wallpaper'". We discussed how in the mise-en-scène, the situation which we find her characters there is quite often a social dynamic whether its a lone figure caught in the act of something or multiple figures and they are caught, Marcelle told me that this sense of theatricality comes from a need to create an immediacy in her work, something Bacon was continually concerned with.
Yet there is a decided difference between what Bacon and Hanselaar call immediacy and theatricality, and the kind that Hockney puts to use in his work. It's much the same subjective approached from completely different corners.
An actor friend told me recently that I maintain a kind of stoic position to life in spite of it all, I feel in full consideration of the moment of death it becomes very difficult not to value the preciousness of life. "It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live” - Marcus Aurelius. Bacon had much the same outlook when he suggested to David Sylvester that life life is so much sweeter to this who walk in the shadow of death because it can be taken away at any moment.
My father, who defended the preciousness of life, would constantly tell his friends that he was going to die young and would go about his work leaving the legacy that he did by the age of 42, with a kind of franticness, which is now recited back to me by those same friends as an ironic part of his story. I believe this stoic awareness of death was a vital aspect to his point of view on art. Though in the case of Bacon he defended the dignity of the image by bearing his own demons on paper and allowing the images to speak to the most vulnerable parts of ourselves, therefore he had a difficult relationship to Bacon's paintings:
y Peter Fuller
Their heads are eyeless and tiny. Their mouths, huge. Two of them are baring their teeth. All have long, stalk-like necks. The one on the left, hunched on a table, has the sacked torso of a mutilated woman; the body of the centre creature is more like an inflated abdomen propped up on flamingo legs behind an empty pedestal; the third could be a cross between a lion and an ox: its single front leg disappears into a patch of scrawny grass.
They exude a sense of nature’s errors; errors caused by some unspeakable genetic pollution, embroidered with physical wounding. One has a white bandage where its eyes might have been. All are an ominous grey, tinted with fleshly pinks: they are set off against backgrounds of garish orange containing suggestions of unspecified architectural spaces.
Francis Bacon painted this triptych, Three Studies for Figures at the Base o f a Crucifixion, now in the Tate Gallery, in 1944. It was first exhibited at the Lefevre Gallery the following April, where it hung alongside works by Moore, Sutherland and others who had sought to redeem the horrors of war through the consolations of art. Although Bacon referred to traditional religious iconography, he did not wish to console anyone about anything. Indeed, he seemed to want to rub the nose of the dog of history in its own excrement.
When the Three Studies was first shown, the war was ending and it was spring. Bacon was out of tune with the mood of his times. Certainly, as far as the fashionable movements in art were concerned, he was to remain so. And yet his star steadily ascended. By the late 1950s he was one of an elite handful of ‘distinguished British artists’. Today his stature among contemporary painters seems unassailable. And yet Bacon - who recently held an exhibition of new work at Marlborough Fine Art to mark the publication by Phaidon of a major monograph, Francis Bacon, by Michel Leiris - must be the most difficult of all living painters to evaluate justly. His work is so extreme it seems to demand an equally extreme response.
Bacon has always denied that he set out to emphasise horror or violence. In a chilling series of interviews conducted by David Sylvester, he qualified this by saying, ‘I’ve always hoped to put over things as directly and rawly as I possibly can, and perhaps, if a thing comes across directly, people feel that that is horrific.’ He explained that people ‘tend to be offended by facts, or what used to be called truth.’ He has repeatedly said that his work has no message, meaning or statement to make beyond the revelation of that naked truth.
Bacon’s serious critics have largely gone along with his own view of his painting. Michel Leiris, a personal friend of the painter’s, is no exception; Leiris argues that Bacon presents us with a radically demystified art, ‘cleansed both of its religious halo and its moral dimension’. Again and again, Leiris calls Bacon a ‘realist’, who strips down the thing he is looking at in a way which retains ‘only its naked reality’. He echoes Bacon himself in arguing that his pictures have no hidden depths and call for no interpretation ‘other than the apprehension of what is immediately visible’.
No doubt the ‘horror’ has been overdone in popular and journalistic responses to Bacon. But it is just as naive to think Bacon is simply recording visual facts, let alone transcribing ‘truth’. Creatures like those depicted in Three Studies can no more be observed slouching around London streets than haloes can be seen above the heads of good men, or angels in our skies. Of course Bacon’s violent imagination distorts what he sees.
But the clash between Bacon’s supporters and the populists cannot be dismissed as easily as that. The point remains whether Bacon’s distortions are indeed revelatory of a significant truth about men and women beyond the facts of their appearances; or whether they are simply a horrible assault upon our image of ourselves and each other, pursued for sensationalist effects. And this, whether Bacon and his friends like it or not, involves us in questions of interpretation, value and meaning.
The stature of Bacon’s achievement from the most unpropitious beginnings is not to be denied. Although his father named his only son after their ancestor, the Elizabethan philosopher of sweet reason, he was himself an unreasonable and tyrannical man, a racehorse trainer by profession. Nonetheless, Francis, a sickly and asthmatic child, felt sexually attracted to him. Francis received no conventional schooling and left home at sixteen, following an incident in which he was discovered trying on his mother’s clothes.
He worked in menial jobs before briefly visiting Berlin and Paris in the late 1920s; soon after, he began painting and drawing, at first without real commitment, direction or success. In the early 1930s, he was better known as a derivative designer of modern rugs and furniture, although an early Crucifixion, in oils, was reproduced by Herbert Read in Art Now. Bacon subsequently destroyed almost all his early work; his public career thus effectively began only with the exhibition of Three Studies in 1944.
Bacon then began to produce the paintings for which he has become famous: at first there were some figures in a landscape; but soon he moved definitively indoors. He displayed splayed bodies, surrounded by tubular furniture of the kind he had once designed, in silent interiors. A fascination with the crucifix and triptych format continued; but he painted the naked, human body - usually male - in all sorts of situations of struggle, suffering and embuggerment. A picture of two naked figures wrestling on a bed of 1953 is surely among his best. But a series of variations on Velazquez’s Portrait o f Pope Innocent X - which he now regrets - became among his most celebrated. By the 1960s, the echoes of religious iconography and the Grand Tradition of painting had become more muted. Bacon could never be accused of ‘intimism’ : ‘homeliness’ is one of the qualities he hates most. The large, bloody, set-piece interiors continued; but the forms of their figures became less energetic, more statuesque. Bacon seemed increasingly preoccupied with portraits, usually in a triptych format, of his friends and associates: Isabel Rawsthorne, Henrietta Moraes, Lucian Freud, George Dyer (his lover), Muriel Belcher, the owner of a drinking club in Soho he frequented, and himself.
Bacon has repeatedly said that he is not an ‘expressionist’; it is easy to show what he means by this by contrasting his work with that of the currently fashionable, but lesser, painter George Baselitz (at the Whitechapel Gallery) - who is. Baselitz deals with a similar subject matter; but he invariably handles paint in an ‘abstract expressionist’ manner; i.e. in a way which refers not so much to his subjects as to his own activity and sentiments as an artist. Anatomy, physiognomy, gesture and the composition of an architectural illusion of space mean nothing to him: to Bacon, they are everything. Or rather almost everything.
For if he has sought to work in continuity with the High Art of the past, Bacon recognises that the painter, today, is in fact in a very different position. He has regretted the absence of a ‘valid myth’ within which to work: ‘When you’re outside tradition, as every artist is today, one can only want to record one’s own feelings about certain situations as closely to one’s nervous system as one possibly can.’
He stresses that the echoes of religion in his pictures are intended to evoke no residue of spiritual values; Bacon is a man for whom Cimabue’s great Crucifixion is no more than an image of ‘a worm crawling down the cross’. He is interested in the crucifix for the same reason he is fascinated by meat and slaughterhouses; and also for its compositional possibilities: ‘The central figure of Christ is raised into a very pronounced and isolated position, which gives it, from a formal point of view, greater possibilities than having all the different figures placed on the same level. The alteration of level is, from my point of view, very important.’ But, for Bacon, the myths of vicarious sacrifice, incarnation, redemption, resurrection, salvation and victory over death mean nothing - even as consoling illusions.
The appeal to a meaningful religious iconography is, in effect, replaced in his work by an appeal to photography; similarly, in his pictures, as in his life, the myth of a jealous and omnipotent god has been replaced by the arbitrary operations of chance.
Bacon’s fascination with Muybridge’s sequential photographs of men, women and animals in motion is well-known. References to specific Muybridge images are often discernible in his pictures; even his triptych format seems to relate more to them than to traditional altarpieces. He seems to believe that Muybridge exposed the illusions of art, and freed it from the need to construct such illusions in the future. Unlike many who reached similar conclusions, they did not, of course, lead Bacon to narrow aestheticism or abstraction. Rather, he sometimes insists that the artist should become even more ‘realist’ than the photographer, by getting yet closer to the object; and, at others, that as a result of photography’s annexation of appearance, good art today has become just a game.
But this insistence on ‘realism’, and reduction of art to its ludic and aleatory aspects, are not, in Bacon’s philosophy, necessarily opposed. Accident and chance play a central role in his pursuit of ‘realistic’ images of men; they enter into his painting technique through his reliance on throwing and splattering. In fact, of course, Bacon exercises a consummate control over the effects chance gives him; but, as he once said, ‘I want a very ordered image, but I want it to come about by chance.’ He fantasizes about the creation of a masterpiece by means of accident. The religious artists of the High Tradition attributed their ‘inspiration’ to impersonal agencies, like the muses or gods; and Bacon, too, is possessed of an overwhelming need to locate the origins of his own imaginative activity outside of himself.
The role of photography and chance in his creative process relate immediately to the view of man he is seeking to realise. ‘Man,’ he has said, ‘now realizes that he is an accident, that he is a completely futile being, that he has to play out the game without reason.’ Thus, in reducing itself to ‘a game by which man distracts himself’ (rather than a purveyor of moral or spiritual values) art more accurately reflects the human situation even than photography . . . The human situation, that is, as seen by Bacon.
Bacon then has achieved something quite extraordinary. He has used the shell of the High Tradition of European painting to express, in form as much as in content, a view of man which is utterly at odds with everything that tradition proclaims and affirms. Moreover, it must be admitted that he has done so to compelling effect. It is perfectly possible to fault Bacon, technically and formally: he has a tendency to ‘fill-in’ his backgrounds with bland expanses of colour; recently, he has not always proved able to escape the trap of self-parody, leading to mannerism and stereotyping of some of his forms. But these are quibbles. Bacon, in interviews, has good reason constantly to refer back to the formal aspects of his work; he is indeed the master of them.
But this cannot be the end of the matter in our evaluation of him. Leiris maintains his ‘realism’ lies in his image of ‘man dispossessed of any durable paradise . . . able to contemplate himself clear-sightedly’. But is it ‘realistic’ to have a Baconian vision of man closer to that of a side of streaky pig’s meat, skewered at random, than to anything envisaged by his rational ancestor?
Nor can we evade the fact that Bacon’s view of man is consonant with the way he lives his life. He emerges from his many interviews as a man with no religious beliefs, no secular ethical values, no faith in human relationships, and no meaningful social or political values either. ‘All life,’ he says, ‘is completely artificial, but I think that what is called social justice makes it more pointlessly artificial . . . Who remembers or cares about a happy society?’ One may sympathise with Bacon because death wiped out so many of his significant relationships; but his life seems to have been dedicated to futility and chance. It has been said that, for him, the inner city is a ‘sexual gymnasium’. He is obsessed with roulette, and the milieu of Soho drinking clubs. He wants to live in ‘gilded squalor’ in a state of ‘exhilarated despair’. He is not so much honest as appallingly frank about his overwhelming ‘greed’.
And it is, of course, just such a view of man which Bacon made so powerfully real through his painterly skills. Because he refuses the ‘expressionist’ option, he also relinquishes that ‘redemption through form’ which characterises Soutine’s carcasses of beef, or Rouault’s prostitutes. But it may, nonetheless, be that there is something more to life than the spasmodic activities of perverse hunks of meat in closed rooms. And perhaps, even if the gods are dead, there are secular values more profound and worthwhile than the random decisions of the roulette wheel.
I believe there are; and so I
cannot accept Bacon as the great realist of our time. He is a good painter: he
is arguably the nearest to a great one to have emerged in Britain since the last
war. (Though I believe Frank Auerbach and Leon Kossoff are better.) Nonetheless,
in the end, I find the vision of man he uses his undeniable painterly talents to
express quite odious. We are not
mere victims of chance; we possess imagination - or the capacity to
conceive of the world other than the way it is. We also have powers of moral
choice, and relatively effective action, whether or not we believe in God. And
so I turn away from Bacon’s work with a sense of disgust, and relief: relief
that it gives us neither the ‘facts’ nor the necessary ‘truth’ about our
mere victims of chance; we possess imagination - or the capacity to conceive of the world other than the way it is. We also have powers of moral choice, and relatively effective action, whether or not we believe in God. And so I turn away from Bacon’s work with a sense of disgust, and relief: relief that it gives us neither the ‘facts’ nor the necessary ‘truth’ about our condition.
The Art of Rivalry by Sebastian Smee
review – from shared vision to slashed canvas
Picasso and Matisse, Bacon and Freud… this study of great painters’ rivalries buzzes with gossip but little real insight
Rachel Cooke | The Observer | Sunday 16 October 2016
When I was younger the anguish and fervent, incomprehensible levels of emotion made me turn away from it, as though it was too much to bear. It didn’t seem overwhelming at first; I just thought it wasn’t for me, until new ways of understanding gradually began to reveal themselves. One such moment was embarrassingly recently, with the Tate’s text-based campaign that revealed Bacon’s Triptych - August 1972. “You describe obsessive love as something you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy,” it reads. It continues: “The day before your first Tate Retrospective your partner is found dead…History mockingly repeats itself. Nearly a decade later, just before your Retrospective at the Grand Palais in Paris, your next partner is found dead from an overdose in your hotel room.”
The triptych is this horrific torture realised in brutal brushstrokes; one, two, three canvases of utter trauma. While I recalled snippets of the work’s story, to have it spelled out so plainly was enough to shed a silent tear at the unimaginable horrors behind the work.
It would be easy to believe that all contexts through which to view Bacon’s work have already been explored; he’s surely one of the most exhibited, written about and discussed artists of the 20th Century, such is the vastness of his output and the narratives that surround him and his work. But a new exhibition, Francis Bacon: From Picasso to Velazquez, at the Guggenheim in Bilbao, hones in on yet another avenue: Bacon’s relationship to Spanish artists.
Curiously, it takes a long look at the impact on Bacon of a work he never in fact saw “in the flesh”, and one that it was impossible for the Guggenheim to acquire – Velazquez’s 1650 Portrait of Pope Innocent X. The image is said to have obsessed Bacon throughout his career, so much so that given the chance to see it in real life in Rome, he refused, instead choosing to savour it as he remembered so vividly from reproductions.
The exhibition intersperses a huge and impressive series of works by Bacon alongside works that impacted him and his career, beginning with Picasso. In Bacon’s words, he was the artist who “opened the door to all these systems. I have tried to stick my foot in the door so that it does not close.”
And it remained open, welcoming in a breeze of other influences, which as From Picasso to Velazquez demonstrates includes Toulouse-Lautrec for his haunting figures; Braque and Gris’ Cubist compositions and muted tones; El Greco’s trapped and darkened protagonists; Rodin’s exposed human corporealities, and the bleak, powerful sketches of Alberto Giacometti.
Presented almost like the most prized and choicest galleried scrapbook, Bacon’s visions take on new fronds of meaning. The pieces of his curious and powerful puzzle gradually move into clearer focus, though never so much as to lose their intrinsic mystery. It’s harrowing to be in a room filled with the cage paintings, men howling and entrapped in oil painted shackles. Yet it’s joyful and life affirming to see the vibrant hues of late works, as shown in the final room, “Life Essence”; where bright swathes of colour backdrop disfigured objects and bodies.
It makes for a show that gives layers
and layers of meaning and inference; one that you could easily visit again and
again and always come away with something new. It’s exhaustive, and exhausting.
From Picasso to Velazquez is accompanied by detailed wall text narrating
Bacon’s life and sources, and a revealing snippet tells of the influence of T S
Eliot’s poems and plays on Bacon. For the confusing flotsam and jetsam of life,
beauty, sex, figures, death, meaning, confusion and of course artistic genius
that make up Bacon and his legacy, the words of Eliot’s Waste Land seem utterly
apt. “These fragments I have shored against my ruins.”
As this exhibition proves, there are so many fragments, and so many ruins, and it’s only in the hands of artistic greatness that we can start to fathom them, if we ever fathom them at all.
The Guggenheim Museum Bilbao is currently featuring a retrospective of the 20th century British/Irish artist Francis Bacon. Considered one of the most important artists of his time, Francis Bacon: From Picasso to Velázquez surveys more than six decades of the artist’s painting, displaying an impressive selection of his paintings alongside those of some of the Spanish and French masters who influenced him the most. This is one of the most daring exhibitions of Bacon’s work ever to be mounted and showcases many works never before displayed in public and offers an interesting insight into his work, especially later works which are in private collections.
This show reveals the importance that Bacon attached to tradition and allows visitors to grasp one of the keys to his creative impetus. Even though Bacon’s work embodies modernity and expresses the angst common to men of his time, he also boldly and ambitiously revisits and carries on the legacy of the great masters while providing referents to the culture of his day and age. The human figure is at the core of most of his compositions, which reflect a stark existentialist view of the individual. Bacon painted extraordinarily expressive portraits with a large dose of authenticity, which means being alive in all senses and with all its consequences. He sought to capture the mystery of life and reduce reality to its essence, synthesizing it in the guise of paint. Iberdrola’s support of this show on the British artist with Irish roots is part of our close partnership with the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao, as well as our commitment to disseminating art and culture wherever we operate. I would like to congratulate everyone who has worked to put together this wonderfully broad and representative selection of paintings from Francis Bacon’s career. It is very gratifying for Iberdrola, in its role as a patron of the arts, to have contributed to materializing a project which allows us to further explore the oeuvre of an exceptional artist.
The exhibition seamlessly displays 80 works many large scale, including some of the most important and yet least exhibited paintings by this artist, alongside the works of the classic masters from French and Spanish culture who played a huge role in his career. Transgressive in both is life and his art, Bacon broke down many barriers that were deeply entrenched at the time, placing human beings in front of a mirror in which we could see ourselves in a raw, violent way. Francis Bacon was a fervent Francophile. He was an avid consumer of French literature by authors like Racine, Balzac, Baudelaire and Proust and passionate about the art of Picasso and Van Gogh, both of whom lived in France, and the painters who preceded them like Degas, Manet, Gauguin, Seurat and Matisse. Bacon lived in and frequently visited France and the Principality of Monaco. As an adolescent, he discovered Nicolas Poussin’s Massacre of the Innocents (1628–1629) near Chantilly, and in 1927 he had a revelatory encounter with Picasso’s work when he visited the exhibition Cent dessins par Picasso in the Paul Rosenberg Gallery in Paris, which, in fact, spurred him to decide to embark on his career as a painter. In 1946, he left London for Monaco, where he lived for three crucial years in his career, and where he would regularly return until 1990.
Bacon always regarded his retrospective at the Grand Palais in Paris in 1971 as the peak of his career, even though it came at one of the most tragic times of his life, just after the death of his partner, and despite the fact that he had held major retrospectives in London and elsewhere. Throughout his career, Francis Bacon continued to develop ever closer ties with Paris, as attested to by the portraits of his Parisian friends and that fact that he kept a studio in Le Marais until 1985. After his initial contact with Picasso’s oeuvre in the 1920’s and 1930’s, Bacon’s influence from Spanish culture is the most obvious in his obsession with the portrait of Pope Innocent X that Velázquez painted in 1650, which would serve as Bacon’s inspiration for more than 50 works. Curiously, Francis Bacon never saw this Velázquez painting, which hangs at the Doria Pamphilj Gallery in Rome, in person; when he had the chance to lay eyes on it during his visit to the Italian capital in 1954, he preferred instead to retain the reproductions in his memory instead of seeing the original painting. In addition to Velázquez, he was also fascinated by other classic Spanish painters such as Zurbarán, El Greco and Goya, whose paintings he fervently admired at Madrid’s Museo del Prado, a museum he asked to visit alone just a few years before his death after seeing the Velázquez retrospective held there in 1990. Francis Bacon died on a brief visit to Madrid in 1992, and even though he never had a permanent home in Spain, he was known to have made extended sojourns in Málaga and visits to Seville, Utrera and Madrid.
Born into a wealthy British family living in rural Ireland, a place of upheaval in the early 20th century, Francis Bacon was confronted with Pablo Picasso’s work in Paris’s Paul Rosenberg Gallery at the tender age of 17. Bacon himself revealed that this signaled his shift towards a career in art; this is attested to in some of his earliest works, such as Composition (Figure) (1933), which clearly references Picasso’s works from the 1920’s, especially Las casetas, the series depicting deformed bathers holding a key, an object that fascinated Picasso and seduced Bacon as well. Starting with absolutely no technical training, Bacon gradually entered the world of art and quickly assimilated what other creators near him, such as Roy de Maistre, were able to teach him. The mere handful of paintings that have survived from this time—Bacon was dissatisfied with most of them and destroyed them—attest to his early influence from Analytical and Synthetic Cubism, and from Picasso’s biomorphic Cubism, which would lead Bacon to develop a language of his own. This vocabulary garnered recognition for the first time in 1933, when the critic Herbert Read reproduced Bacon’s Crucifixion (1933) in a privileged spot, opposite Picasso’s Bather (1929) in his publication Art Now: An Introduction to the Theory of Modern Painting and Sculpture. Even though Bacon received this recognition at the start of his career and at a After World War II, in which Francis Bacon worked in a civil capacity because of his chronic asthma, the artist’s work was once again recognized by critics and the public. He also drew the attention of gallery owner Erica Brausen, who soon exhibited his paintings in different European countries. In 1948, the Museum of Modern Art of New York purchased its first Bacon work from Brausen. During this period, the artist created a new universe of images conceived via literature, film, art, and his own life. Bacon approached this iconography using a unique language, reflecting human vulnerability with utter rawness. Somewhere between human and animal—as in some of Eadweard Muybridge’s photographs—the figures begin to appear enclosed and entrapped in cages or cubes. Bacon used this device to focus the viewer’s attention on the figures, which were smudged or disfigured, reduced to strokes of greyish and bluish colours reminiscent of El Greco and the drawings of Alberto Giacometti, which Bacon preferred over his sculptures. Later in this period, Bacon also paid homage to Vincent van Gogh, whom he evoked through his loose brushwork and bright palette, which contrast with the dark figures in other paintings. Bacon was fascinated by the way Van Gogh veered away from the rules and literal reality in favour of expressiveness.
E-FLUX | 28 September, 2016
The Guggenheim Museum Bilbao presents Francis Bacon: From Picasso to Velázquez, an exhibition of some 80 works including some of the most important and yet least exhibited paintings by this British artist born in Ireland, alongside the works of the classic masters from French and Spanish culture. Portraits, nudes, landscapes, bullfighting… the exhibition offers a new perspective on Bacon’s oeuvre by highlighting the influences exerted on his art.
Así se intentaron vender los cuadros de Bacon robados en Madrid
Una red de peristas, joyeros e intermediarios intentó colocar las obras sin éxito
JOSÉ MARIA IRUJO | LUIS MAGÁN | MADRID | EL PAÍS | 20 SEPTEMBER 2016
Los cinco cuadros de Francis Bacon robados hace más de un año en Madrid a José Capelo, amigo y heredero del pintor, se intentaron vender en España en dos ocasiones. La última durante una reunión celebrada el pasado mes de febrero en el número cuatro de la calle Duque de Alba de Majadahonda, una casa moderna de tres alturas situada a escasos metros del paseo principal de esta localidad madrileña, según ha podido acreditar la investigación policial y describe el sumario judicial al que ha tenido acceso EL PAÍS.
El encuentro tuvo lugar en el piso en el que residía Ricardo Barbastro Heras, que mostró fotografías de uno de los cuadros robados a Antonio Losada de la Rosa, un perista de El Rastro de Madrid interesado en su compra. El vendedor pidió por el cuadro dos millones de euros y el comprador exigió hablar con el dueño de la obra y un contrato legal. La oferta no prosperó porque este último descubrió finalmente que la obra era robada.
Antonio Losada y su hijo José habían sido informados de la existencia de los cuadros de Bacon por Rafael Heredia González, un vendedor de joyas, que estuvo presente en la reunión de Majadahonda y que antes del encuentro había mostrado al padre y al hijo fotografías de uno de los retratos robados en junio de 2015 en una casa señrial situada en el número 2 de la Plaza de la Encarnación, muy cerca del Senado, en pleno centro de Madrid. El valor de los cuadros supera los 30 millones de euros y el golpe está considerado como el mayor robo de pintura contemporánea en España. Los cuatro protagonistas de este encuentro fueron detenidos por la Policía el pasado mes de marzo y están en libertad provisional en calidad de investigados (imputados) por los delitos de encubrimiento de robo con fuerza. El caso sigue envuelto en un halo de misterio porque pese a las numerosas pistas obtenidas y personas detenidas (siete) el botín continúa sin aparecer.
En septiembre de 2015, solo dos meses después del robo, se produjo el primer intento de colocar las obras. Y lo protagonizó la misma persona. Ricardo Barbastro, de 45 años, con cinco antecedentes por tráfico de drogas y lesiones, llamó a su primo Jorge de las Heras, empleado de una galería de arte, y le ofreció “unos cuadros muy buenos”. Le comentó “que las obras procedían de una pelea entre una pareja y que uno de ellos se había llevado los cuadros del otro como compensación porque le había echado de casa. El propietario de los cuadros vivía en Londres y venía muy poco a España”, según aseguró en su declaración policial. La llamada le extrañó. No habían hablado desde hacía 17 años, pero Ricardo insistió en que conociese a los vendedores y se negó a enviar fotos de los cuadros por WhatsApp.
El encuentro se celebró a principios de octubre, sobre las 14.15 horas en un bar del número 5 de la madrileña calle Doctor Fleming. Ricardo acudió con cuatro personas más, tres se sentaron en la mesa y uno permaneció sentado en la barra escuchando, pero sin intervenir. Según su relato, su primo le volvió a contar la historia de la falsa pelea y aseguró que el propietario no se había enterado porque vivía en Londres. “Les propuse sacar las obras a subasta que es donde más beneficio obtendrían, pero contestaron que no se podía porque hay un problema legal en relación con la herencia de Francis Bacon y una parte de los herederos pueden reclamar las obras. Querían saber si teníamos algún cliente interesado en la compra de cuadros de Bacon”, describió el empleado de la galería a la Policía. “Uno de ellos me dijo que podía ganar mucho dinero si buscaba un comprador”, añadió el galerista que rechazó el ofrecimiento y respondió que no conocía a nadie interesado porque “todo me pareció muy raro”.
Antes de despedirse la prometieron que le enviarían un lápiz de memoria con las fotografías de los cuadros, pero nunca se volvieron a poner en contacto. Él tampoco quiso saber nada de su primo.
Barbastro y sus acompañantes conocían detalles de las características de los cuadros robados y de su dueño, que también reside en Londres. Explicaron que las obras eran tres dibujos y dos óleos, que estaban dedicados al propietario de las obras y que uno de ellos era un retrato de este último. En realidad los cinco cuadros representan el rostro de su dueño y estaban colgados en su dormitorio donde los ladrones robaron también una caja fuerte que contenía joyas y una espléndida colección de monedas antiguas valorada en 400.000 euros. Cuando se produjo el hurto Capelo estaba pasando unos días en la capital británica.
El testigo de esta reunión ha identificado a Alfredo Cristian Ferriz, un chófer de empresa de 40 años años, como la persona que llevó “la voz cantante” durante toda la reunión en la que le ofrecieron los cuadros. Cristian, como le llaman sus amigos, un tipo alto, calvo, de brazos corpulentos y cinturón negro de kárate, tiene un largo rosario antecedentes policiales, ocho de ellos por robo con fuerza, tres por hurto de vehículos, uno por amenazas y otro por tráfico de drogas. Fue detenido junto al marchante de arte Cristóbal García, en el domicilio de este último en Madrid, porque Ricardo Barbastro afirma que Cristian es la persona que tiene en su poder los cuadros y que su amigo Cristóbal es el cerebro del golpe. Los tres se conocen. Barbastro ha declinado responder a este periódico.
Los ladrones utilizaron una cámara Canon EOS 5D Mark II alquilada en la productora madrileña Addict Studios para fotografiar el anverso y el reverso de los cinco cuadros robados y ofrecerlos a los peristas de El Rastro. Agustín González, uno de los dueños de la productora ha hecho negocios con este marchante y el albarán del alquiler está firmado por Cristóbal Caballero, nombre y segundo apellido de García. “Han utilizado mi nombre e imitado mi firma. No tengo nada que ver con estas personas aunque conozco a alguna de ellas. Soy inocente. Lo último que se me ocurriría es intentar colocar estas obras tan importantes entre peristas de El Rastro”, afirma Cristóbal García a este periódico, un marchante de arte que ha trabajado en Madrid, París y Londres. Un informe caligráfico encargado por el Juzgado que investiga el robo no ha podido acreditar que la letra sea del considerado por la Policía como presunto cerebro.
Antonio Losada, el perista del Rastro que acudió a la reunión en Majadahonda, ofreció uno de los Bacon a Juan Manuel Marce Gea, anticuario y marchante en Sitges, quien a su vez comprobó con la empresa londinense The Art Loss Register si eran o no robados. El correo que recibió este último no dejaba lugar a dudas. “Le informo que la pintura de Bacon es posiblemente una pintura robada y registrada en la base de Interpol. Mis mejores deseos”, escribió Will Korner el pasado 23 de febrero a Marce. “La pintura fue robada en Madrid el 22 de junio de 2015..”, escribió más tarde la empleada de la empresa Nina Neuhaus quien más tarde comunicó a la Brigada de patrimonio Histórico de la Policía la consulta del marchante catalán.
El anticuario catalán llevaba desde enero negociando la venta del cuadro a varios clientes con una fotografía enviada por el perista Losada y citaba abiertamente a Capelo como dueño de la obra. A dos de ellos les remitió un correo bajo el título de “peligro” en el que reproducía la información recibida desde Londres. La conversación intervenida por la Policía entre Marce y el perista Antonio Losada, el hombre que acudió a la reunión de Majadahonda y que le ofreció uno de los cuadros robados, demuestra la preocupación de ambos al descubrir que eran robados.
-Antonio Losada: “ni hablar con ellos, nada, nada.. fuera. Una ruina, una ruina..
-Juan Manuel Marce: “no tenemos edad para estas cosas… muy bonito negocio y todo lo que tu quieras, pero aquí hay gato encerrado ¿o no? Hay que chequearlo todo en esta vida, en estos momento, porque no podemos patinar. Si salen otros negocios que sean correctos y legales pues vamos, pero si no …no. No quiero líos ¿Vale?
Los Losada, padre e hijo, pese a conocer ya que los cuadros eran robados buscaron otras personas donde colocar los Bacon, según se desprende de otras conversaciones telefónicas intervenidas en marzo, semanas antes de ser detenidos
Artists of the Colony Room
Artists of the Colony Room Club -
The Dark Art of Soho
Kensington, Chelsea & Westminster Today | 16th September 2016
Hooray! No need to travel to Chichester if you never seem to make it, Bonhams is putting on a terrific show from the magnificent Pallant House Galleries in its Bond St galleries during Freize week. This is a very special collection from an important time of 20thCentury British art. Post War it was when so much about art was being revaluated, stretched and reinvented; most of this occurred through conversation and those conversations between this group of Artists happened at their adopted club, and hangout The Colony Room Club, in Dean Street Soho. Starting in 1948, it continued for 60years,
Post-war Soho was a very different place, it had the taste of danger and the smell of sex around every street corner. It was a howling screech away from the smart, clean and comfortable tourist centre it has evolved into, full of media members clubs. The Colony run by the out spoken, witty and barbed tongue owner Muriel Belcher and her barman Ian Board drew in first of all Francis Bacon, who was paid in 1949 £10 a week to bring in rich and influential customers (this just about covered his bar bill), but as a charismatic and leading artist of the day he also attracted his fellow artists amongst them Lucien Freud, Frank Auerbach, John Minton, John Craxton, The two Roberts Colquon and MacBryde, Richard Hamilton, Peter Blake, RB Kitaj shown in this show, reflects a certain time but the Colony went on until 2008 and became the breeding ground for so much more, including the YBA movement of the 1990’s.
The Colony Room wasn’t singularly an artists club otherwise how could it survive? Somebody has to buy the drinks! What made it so special was the rare mix of intellectual, lords, ladies, musicians and poets and somebody to conduct and orchestrate a room full of people against the moral conventions of the day; Muriel Belcher. Francis Bacon summed it up as,’ “an oasis where the inhibitions of sex and class are dissolved… and you can be yourself” And who doesn’t want to be that?
Sophie Parkin is the author of The Colony Room Club 1948-2008 – A history of Bohemian Soho pub by Palmtree Publishers £35. 277pgs. ISBN 978-0-9574354-1-4.
The exhibition will be in the main saleroom of Bonhams, 101 New Bond Street, London W1, from Sunday 2 October to Tuesday 11 October. Opening hours are 9.30am – 4.30pm. Closed on Saturdays and Sunday 9 October. Admission free.
Life as meat
–World War II London artists dabbled with expiration date
W.S. DI PIERO ART
W.S. DI PIERO|
ART REVIEW| LOS ANGELES | SAN DIEGO READER | SEPT. 14 2016
Portrait of Isabel Rawsthorne, by Francis Bacon (1966), oil on canvas
In the years following World War II, the biggest art conversation was about abstraction and what to do with it. The critical center was New York and the artists in question were Pollock, Rothko, de Kooning, Gorky, and Kline. At the same time, several painters in England (though not all British-born) were complicating the idiom of representational painting. Each side had things to say about the other. Francis Bacon, the most articulate of the British artists, called Abstract Expressionism “decoration.” Harold Rosenberg, one of Abstraction’s house critics, called Bacon’s work “too figurative, too narrative, too concerned with Christian imagery yet dangerously unpious in its view of religion.” Barnett Newman said (approvingly) that Abstract Expressionists were “freeing [themselves] of the impediments of memory, association, nostalgia, legend, myth.” Bacon and five other figurative artists working in and around the ruins of postwar London were cultivating those “impediments,” and a sampling of their work is on view in London Calling, currently at the Getty Center.
These artists ate and drank together; they argued about and observed one another’s work; Bacon and Freud gambled together in casinos. I first saw Francis Bacon’s pictures in 1972, during the opening credits of Last Tango in Paris. I was a 27-year-old poet with no thought of ever writing about painting, but seeing those illustrations stirred a desire to say something, sooner or later, about Bacon’s work. (I’m slow: I didn’t get around to it until the 1990s.) The Tango images — a woman slouched in a chair, a figure sagging on a divan — were expressions of emotional disfigurement, solitariness, and tense anticipation kneaded into mercurial shapes, appropriate icons for Tango’s drama of carnal appetite and existential strain.
Dublin-born (in 1909) of British parents, Bacon was the oldest of what one of the six, R.I. Kitaj, termed the “London School,” and his palette of incited yellows, billiard-table greens, flamingo pinks, indigos, and reds gave a posh, privileged look to his vision of human animalism, of life as meat with an expiration date. The gamble of accident was part of his process. Artists before him had invited randomness into their interaction with the canvas, but Bacon’s interventions were more purposeful. He required instability. As a picture came into a structure, he’d destabilize it, pull it out of an achieved form, sometimes by swiping a rag across the canvas. It was an aggressive kind of painting-against-itself. His portraits of acquaintances and lovers, usually photograph-based, featured smeared skulls, enfolded faces, and elastic bodies composed of glistening planes that shed a protoplasmic “skin,” a kind of shadow incarnate.
Bacon left home at 17, travelled, worked as a furniture and interior designer, and by the early 1930s, virtually self-taught, was making paintings on profane and messily sacred subjects. His work responded as much to the containments of space as to human mood and expressiveness. Within the pictures he created staging areas, boxy structures or display platforms that look like laboratory containers or jewelry displays. The settings expose more than they enclose. The figures’ mouths sometimes remodel the mouth of a screaming woman in Eisenstein’s film Battleship Potemkin. In the 1954 Figure with Meat, her mouth appears on a figure derived from Velázquez’s 1650 Portrait of Pope Innocent X: the blue-robed pontiff shares a caged space with split halves of a beef carcass, meat-and-blood wings that obliterate any sense of the transcendent.
Other of Bacon’s photographic models were the stop-action motion studies Eadweard Muybridge made of wrestlers, acrobats, and ordinary people walking, jumping, and climbing steps. Bacon subverted photography’s stillness by working colour to make it look a little runny and decomposing. In the central panel of Triptych August 1972 two males muscle around each other like wrestlers or lovers. On the left panel is a seated George Dyer, Bacon’s model and lover who had recently killed himself, and on the right, the artist. Seeping from the figures is that familiar flayed-skin human spoor, a puddling pinkish flesh tone that looks like a spill of selfhood.
Bacon met Lucian Freud in the 1940s. Freud’s ambition was the pursuit of fleshly countenance. In an early work like Girl with a Kitten from 1947, the girl’s skin has a bruised pearliness, a tone Freud would work many variations on in his career, and her lost gaze directs her consciousness way beyond the picture. (She’s holding the kitten by the neck, like a trophy.) Freud experimented with consistency of surface and the elasticity of interior space. The surface of Girl with a Kitten is smooth, chaste, indifferent. The placid flesh from the 1950s pictures gradually gets eroded and corrupted by time; the fineness of finish breaks down into flaky cellular bits and knobs as Freud inquires more and more into the contemplative weathered-ness of the human form. The later work has coarser, broken consistencies, and his nudes look as if they’ve just now dropped or been pushed awkwardly onto beds. The skin in Freud’s work is a blast of carnal presence. He painted the life of time in the body, the decrepitude, the fat, the little and great collapses, just as in the early work he showed a lovely, though tough, youthfulness of presence.
One of Freud’s students at the Slade School of Fine Art was Michael Andrews, born in 1928 and, dead at age 67, the shortest lived of the six artists in London Calling. Of them, he was the most social; his paintings observe human consciousness registering its awareness of others and its surroundings. One of his best known pictures, A Man Who Suddenly Fell Over, doesn’t illustrate the act of falling so much as it reveals two states of mind in that moment. A portly businessman, trying feebly to break the fall with his shoulder, is suspended in a state of worried amusement that there’s nowhere for him to go but down, while the woman observing the event registers a shocked queasiness. Andrews liked parties and liked making pictures based on them. In the busy drinking-club crowd in Colony Room I (not included in the exhibition), his friends Bacon and Freud mix it up with journalists, arts people, and hangers-on. In his landscapes, Andrews aspirates the surfaces and breaks them down into a beautifully expressive unevenness. In a swirling grayish 1994 painting of the Thames Estuary, globs and chunks of clotted ash and dirt are mixed with the paint to create a pensive, elegiac moment in the mind: the churned textures of land and water become a platform for fishermen revealed high in the scene like presiding spirits. The entire picture feels like a modernist dream of 19th-century representation.
Der doppelte Bacon
Christoph Vitali, Direktor vom Haus der Kunst in München, schreibt über den englischen Maler Francis Bacon und über ein Buch, das in eindringlicher Weise den Mythos vom ausschließlich tragisch, ja apokalyptisch fixierten Bacon zerstört.
ART DAS KUNSTMAGAZINE
DAS KUNSTMAGAZINE| 7 SEPTEMBER 2016
Die nochmalige Lektüre von Michael Peppiatts großer Francis-Bacon-Biografie war für mich auch das Eintauchen in ein Stück Vergangenheit. Im Jahre 1996 hatten wir vom Musee National d'Art Moderne in Paris die große Retrospektive des nur wenige Jahre zuvor gestorbenen Malers nach München geholt. Ich hatte sie zusammen mit David Sylvester, einem Freund und Weggefährten des Künstlers, im Haus der Kunst gehängt - eine Einrichtung, die mir unvergesslich bleibt: zentrierend um die sechs großen Triptychen im Hauptsaal, die Bacon zum Ende der sechziger und zu Beginn der siebziger Jahre malte und deren Gegenstand stets das Bild seines Freundes George Dyer war.
Dyer hatte sich am Vorabend der großen Ausstellung im Grand Palais in Paris im Herbst 1971, der Krönung des Werkes von Bacon überhaupt, umgebracht. Unsere Münchner Schau wurde zu einer Inszenierung, wie sie prachtvoller, aber auch furchterregend-abweisender kaum je gelungen war. Für Münchens bildverliebtes Publikum ein harter, schwer zu verdauender Brocken. Zur Eröffnung brachte Michael Peppiatt, auch er mit Bacon dreißig Jahre lang befreundet, die englische Originalausgabe seines eben erschienenen Buchs über den Maler mit.
Bacon führte ein Doppelleben
Bacon führte ein Doppelleben
Was kann uns die kluge Biografie heute sagen? Sie zerstört in eindringlicher Weise den Mythos vom ausschließlich tragisch, ja apokalyptisch fixierten Künstler. Sie zeigt uns statt dessen über viele Seiten den in die Welt verliebten, sein Leben in vollen Zügen genießenden Francis Bacon, der, als ein brillanter Causeur von Kneipe zu Bar zu Nachtclub in Londons Soho ziehend, eine große Anzahl von Bewunderern an sich fesselte. Danach allerdings, wenn er spät nachts als eleganter Dandy in sein bescheidenes Atelier zurückkehrte und zum Pinsel griff, verwandelte sich der Lebemann und protokollierte Zwänge in großen einsamen Bildern. Diese Doppelexistenz des Künstlers macht Peppiatts Buch in unnachahmlicher Weise deutlich.
Es ist in der kunsthistorischen Analyse so nüchtern und präzise, als ginge es um das Werk eines völlig Fremden. Gleichzeitig, und darin liegt seine große Kraft, ist es das eindrückliche Zeugnis eines sympathisierenden Beobachters voller Zuneigung. So liest sich die Biografie über weite Strecken wie ein fesselnder Roman, und es ist ihr eine gute Aufnahme bei den vielen Bacon-Freunden in Deutschland von ganzem Herzen zu wünschen.
Der Artikel erschien zuerst in art -
das Kunstmagazin, Ausgabe 12, 2000
Der Artikel erschien zuerst in art - das Kunstmagazin, Ausgabe 12, 2000
Francis Bacon, une sorte de g énie
absolu si plaisant
énie absolu si plaisant
Monaco propose un parcours
autour des œuvres de l’artiste britannique, dont une partie a été réalisée dans
cette principauté où il a vécu un temps et qu’il n’a jamais totalement quittée.
Alcool, jeu et peinture. Il impose une forme d’honnêteté artistique si rare
Monaco propose un parcours autour des œuvres de l’artiste britannique, dont une partie a été réalisée dans cette principauté où il a vécu un temps et qu’il n’a jamais totalement quittée. Alcool, jeu et peinture. Il impose une forme d’honnêteté artistique si rare aujourd’hui
MARDI, 23 AOÛT, 2016
Francis Bacon, Fragment of a Crucifixion, 1950
Francis Bacon, Fragment of a Crucifixion, 1950
Principauté de Monaco,
Principauté de Monaco, envoyé spécial.
Il faut reconnaître à la principauté de Monaco son engagement pour les arts. Loin de tout point de vue et autres images du monde, il existe une vie culturelle en dehors du célèbre casino de Monte-Carlo. C’est pourtant un lieu assez palpitant, il faut le dire même dans l’Humanité, qui plaisait à Francis Bacon. Le peintre britannique, amoureux comme on le sait de la culture française, venu à la peinture grâce à Picasso, s’est installé là, entre France et Italie, un beau jour de 1946. Pour trois ans. Trois années prolifiques. Alcool, jeu et peinture. Cocktail détonant. Un triptyque infernal qui n’aura jamais vraiment quitté l’artiste.
L’amant toujours là, l’aplat qui s’offre au relief du couteau
Monaco, donc, qui a décidé de rendre hommage à Bacon par un drôle d’intitulé : « Francis Bacon. Monaco et la culture française ». C’est au Grimaldi Forum. Un espace. C’est bien ce qu’il faut pour un Bacon qui n’a eu de cesse d’interroger les figures, de s’emparer de l’être pour le décortiquer comme le ferait un médecin légiste avant de recomposer le tout dans un esprit moins ludique que grave et parfois graveleux. N’est-ce pas ce qu’exprime cette photo signée John Deakin, saisie en 1952 à Londres, qui ouvre l’exposition ? Les bras levés, Bacon tient dans chaque main les deux parties d’un animal fraîchement coupé. La chair et les côtes ainsi brandies semblent les ailes de cet ange démoniaque qu’est l’artiste torse nu, avec cette gueule qui est la sienne. Qu’on croit déceler dans chacune de ses toiles. Belle entrée en matière et un étrange pied de nez à ses portraits de papes – si fameux – dont il a commencé l’exploration dans une principauté tellement liée à l’histoire d’un moine.
L’espace Grimaldi n’est pas un musée. Pas non plus une fondation. C’est un lieu qui s’agence comme on veut présenter des œuvres. C’est aéré au sens spatial du terme. Les œuvres sont là. Elles s’offrent à vous, seules, ou visibles en un groupement qui marquent des unités. Recherche réelle, ou bien le plasticien trouve-t-il dans le geste cet obscur objet du désir ? L’amant toujours là, le mouvement qui fait la vie, l’aplat qui s’offre au relief du couteau. Chez Bacon la couleur n’est pas là pour être chatoyante, mais pour exprimer la pensée, le sentiment, le désarroi. L’emportement certainement. La colère aussi. On sent des flèches, des morsures. C’est ce qui bouleverse. Cette façon d’imposer tout à la fois sa certitude et son incertitude. Son amour et son dégoût. C’est cette forme d’honnêteté artistique qu’impose Francis Bacon.
Alors, la France et Monaco dans tout ça, puisque c’est le thème de l’exposition ? Peu importe après tout. Oui, peut-être faut-il rappeler qu’il a cherché et trouvé en France ce qu’une certaine Angleterre ne lui permettait pas. A-t-il perçu dans le rocher monégasque, la proximité de la mer, la haute rocaille qu’on a toujours dans le dos, le décor absolu qui se pare des atours du fric, de la dépravation, du luxe insolent et du factice ? Il y a dans ce parcours monégasque une sorte de génie absolu si plaisant. Si simple et si dérangeant à la fois, qu’on se retrouve à regarder Bacon d’un autre œil. Déstabilisé, mais bien. Il ne s’agit pas tant de se retrouver embringué dans une sorte d’histoire de l’art, de revisitation de la représentation que d’être immergé dans un monde qui se suffit à lui-même et est en même temps universel.
L’artiste ose, en se mettant à nu, dépouiller le regardant
C’est évidemment à cette aune que l’on peut reconnaître un grand artiste. Celui qui aide à soulever les strates de l’esprit. Celui qui ose, en se mettant à nu, dépouiller le regardant. Lui faire les poches, en quelque sorte. De manière telle qu’en sortant on se demande si ce n’est pas soi-même que brandit le Bacon du départ. Celui de la photo qui brandit de la bidoche. Comme pour nous dire, avec un rien de mépris, que nous ne valons pas mieux. Que la déconstruction est la meilleure des constructions. Que l’angle droit ne vaut rien sans la distorsion. Ses ateliers, à Londres comme à Paris, n’étaient rien d’autre qu’un fatras de papiers, de cartons, de restes de ses gestes. Et que, de toute manière, à Monaco ou ailleurs, rien ne vaut la sincérité. Il faut le voir ainsi.
I maestri del '900: Francis
Bacon alla mostra
I maestri del '900: Francis Bacon alla mostra
"Dall’Opera al libro, dal
"Dall’Opera al libro, dal libro all’Opera"
La litografia Oedipus and
the Sphinx after Ingres rimarrà esposta a Palazzo Corvaja fino al 16 ottobre
La litografia Oedipus and the Sphinx after Ingres rimarrà esposta a Palazzo Corvaja fino al 16 ottobre
di Redazione |
Taormina Today| 16 August 2016
Il pittore irlandese Francis Bacon (Dublino, 28 ottobre 1909 – Madrid, 28 aprile 1992)
Una visione contemporanea del mito di Edipo. Francis Bacon in Oedipus and the Sphinx after Ingres crea un ponte artistico tra il mito dell’antichità e la guerra. Nato nel 1909 a Dublino ha vissuto in prima persona il dramma delle guerre mondiali. Paura, odio, violenza vengono riversate nell’opera. Edipo è ferito, non è più l’incarnazione dell’intelligenza umana rappresentata da Ingres. Nella versione di Bacon la Sfinge ed Edipo occupano entrambi i lati della litografia lasciando il centro vuoto. Sullo sfondo, in posizione centrale, quasi a dominare l’intero quadro una figura indistinguibile, una creatura alata raffigurante una Erinni che personifica la maledizione lanciata sulla terra. Per Ingres, questa scena è solo un pretesto per la rappresentazione del corpo maschile ideale, mentre con Bacon si è di fronte con una reinterpretazione del mito che ha lo scopo di far riflettere sulla mostruosità dell’uomo del dopoguerra. Ingres raffigura un passato perfetto, mentre Bacon si confronta con un presente imperfetto dominato dalla violenza.
La litografia Oedipus and the Sphinx after Ingres fa parte della collezione privata di Enzo Gribaudo esposta a Palazzo Corvaja fino al prossimo 16 ottobre. Francis Bacon dedicò questa litografia all’editore Ezio Gribaudo in occasione della pubblicazione della propria monografia Fabbri. Il testo incluso nel volume, scritto da Lorenza Trucchi, fu giudicato dall’artista irlandese il migliore mai scritto sul proprio lavoro. La mostra dal titolo “Dall’Opera al Libro, dal Libro all’Opera. Ezio Gribaudo e i maestri del Novecento” prende il nome dal prezioso catalogo (curato da Paola Gribaudo, figlia del maestro e sua fidata collaboratrice sin da giovanissima) nel quale non soltanto è documentata l’esposizione ma è anche offerta un particolare focus di lettura sull’editoria d’arte attraverso la loro storia familiare. Una storia e una tradizione fatta di prestigiose collaborazioni e amicizie con i grandi maestri e le maggiori personalità artistiche del Novecento, da Picasso a De Chirico, passando per numerosi altri nomi illustri.
La testimonianza di Ezio
Gribaudo. Oedipus and the Sphinx after Ingres fa parte della collezione
privata di Enzo Gribaudo esposta a Palazzo Corvaja fono al prossimo 16 ottobre
La testimonianza di Ezio Gribaudo. Oedipus and the Sphinx after Ingres fa parte della collezione privata di Enzo Gribaudo esposta a Palazzo Corvaja fono al prossimo 16 ottobre
«Nella lista di artisti, stilata a suo tempo dalla Fabbri, ai quali dedicare una monografia, il nome di Bacon era uno dei primi, almeno in ambito europeo – spiega Ezio Gribaudo – per me sicuramente quello al quale avrei voluto dedicare un’opera a strettissimo giro. In quel momento la triade dei grandi inglesi era costituita da Moore, Sutherland e Bacon. L’anno precedente era uscito Sutherland, poco prima Moore e ora mi sembrava il momento per Bacon. Decidemmo così di iniziare. Presi un appuntamento con Valerie Beston, che avevo già conosciuto in occasione della monografia su Henry Moore. La incontrai alla galleria Marlborough di Londra – racconta Gribaudo – e mi procurò un appuntamento con Bacon. Avere un incontro con lui non era facile, era un personaggio un po’ irraggiungibile; in quel periodo dipingeva degli straordinari grandi trittici. Bacon organizzò una cena da Willer, un pub famoso per il pesce. Fu un incontro bellissimo durante il quale decidemmo il taglio da conferire al libro. Parlammo di molte cose, di Torino dove aveva avuto dei rapporti con la galleria Galatea. Il mattino successivo andai nel suo mitico atelier e mi dedicò una bellissima fotografia scattata da Cartier Bresson. In quel periodo abitava anche a Parigi, in rue de Birague, vicino a Place des Vosges; divideva il suo tempo fra Londra e Parigi, a lui piaceva molto il mondo parigino. Proposi a Bacon – continua Ezio Gribaudo -di far scrivere il testo da Lorenza Trucchi e credo che il testo della monografia sia il suo capolavoro. Difatti quando fu tradotto Bacon lo ritenne il miglior scritto dedicatogli fino ad allora. Stampammo velocemente e, nel marzo del 1975, riuscimmo a presentare il libro alla vernice della grande mostra che il Metropolitan Museum di New York aveva allestito su Bacon. Prima d’allora però lui presenziò ad una mia personale alla Marlborough Graphics di Londra, diretta da Barbara Lloyd. Nel libro d’oro Bacon scrisse parole molto lusinghiere. Bacon era talmente entusiasta del libro che scendendo le scale del Metropolitan mi disse: “Vieni a Londra perché voglio farti un ritratto, di quelli piccoli”. Gli dissi che sarei andato, ma preso da mille cose, stupidamente non trovai il tempo. Voleva che posassi per lui a Londra! Un rimpianto che mi porterò dietro tutta la vita. Comunque lo rividi ancora, in occasioni ufficiali e non, più a Parigi che a Londra, ed elaborammo inoltre un aggiornamento della monografia».
Dall’Opera al libro, dal
Dall’Opera al libro, dal libro all’Opera.
Il libro è il veicolo più diffuso del sapere. Ma non è solo uno strumento: le copertine possono, in alcuni casi, essere delle vere e proprie opere d’arte. La mostra allestita a Palazzo Corvaja trae spunto dai grandi nomi di spicco del contesto culturale e artistico del Novecento in stretto rapporto con Ezio Gribaudo e che si pone come un trait d’union tra testo e arti figurative, tra il libro e la copertina. La veste editoriale di un libro può, infatti, divenire arte, valore aggiunto al suo contenuto. Dai capolavori di Guttuso a quelli di Mirò, l’esposizione mette in risalto il valore del libro come oggetto d’arte. L’arte incontra quindi la letteratura. “Dall’Opera al libro, dal libro all’Opera” è, infatti, il frutto della collaborazione tra Taobuk (Taormina International Book Festival) e Artelibro Festival del Libro d’Arte.
Classe 1909, omosessuale dalla personalità complessa. Pioniere della cosiddetta Nuova Figurazione inglese esplosa in seno ad una interpretazione più esistenziale del surrealismo, con l’ambizione di indagare artisticamente la vera essenza dell’uomo contemporaneo, dilaniato dalla seconda guerra mondiale ma soprattutto bloccato dal dopoguerra. Il suo mondo artistico è animato da soggetti esasperati, quasi a volerne indicare un progressivo processo di crollo spirituale. Un diario delirante e visionario, quello dei racconti per immagini di Francis Bacon, che dipingeva sempre sulla base di esperienze personali e intime. C’è il debutto degli anni Trenta che già rivelava un interesse per l’ambiguità della trama figurativa, che si perpetua nei lavori degli anni Quaranta, la sua ufficializzazione di artista, al fianco di Henry Moore e Graham Sutherland. Nelle sue opere degli anni Cinquanta Bacon che si accanisce sulla figura, con forza ed originalità punta ad esaltare il volto umano. Lo dimostrano i suoi Studi, le serie delle Teste, gli Uomini in blu, incorporei e spettrali, dai volti argentei e sfocati, fino alle rivisitazioni del Ritratto di papa Innocenzo X da un’opera di Velázquez. Opere che fanno ormai di Bacon il maestro indiscusso della “defigurazione”. Negli anni ’60 i suoi personaggi prendono luce e spazio, come i ritratti di cari amici o dell’amato George Dyer. Fino all’apoteosi dell’interiorità umana coi Trittici degli anni ’70.
How Monaco and France
FARAH NAYERI | INTERNATIONAL ARTS | THE NEW YORK TIMES | AUG. 17, 2016
Some of the Francis Bacon paintings on view through Sept. 4 at the Grimaldi Forum in Monte Carlo.
MONTE CARLO — The glamorous Mediterranean principality of Monaco is not usually viewed as a cradle of pioneering modern art. Yet in the 1940s, the painter Francis Bacon spent three productive years there, developing his best-known pictorial theme: the “screaming” popes, inspired by a Velázquez portrait.
Those years are the focus of Francis Bacon: Monaco and French Culture which runs through Sept. 4 at the Grimaldi Forum in Monte Carlo and then opens on Sept. 30 (in an expanded version that also highlights Bacon’s Spanish influences) at the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao in Spain, illustrating the influence of Monaco on Bacon’s career and his lifelong relationship with France.
There are 66 Bacon oil paintings on show, along with a dozen works by Picasso, Soutine and other artists who worked in France and inspired him. Bacon was born in Dublin but spent most of his life in Britain, travelling frequently to Paris, where he kept a studio apartment. The exhibition is curated by Martin Harrison, a Briton who edited the first catalogue raisonné of Bacon’s work, published in June.
Bacon, who visited Monaco as early as 1940, moved there in July 1946 with the proceeds of a painting sale.
One of Monaco’s undisputed attractions for the painter was gambling.
“I became very obsessed by the casino, and I spent whole days there,” the artist recalls in a filmed interview that is part of the exhibition. “I used to think that I heard the croupiers calling out the number at roulette, the winning number, before the ball had fallen into the socket.”
On one particular afternoon, Bacon “heard these echoes” as he was playing “rather small stakes” at three different tables. Soon, he had won himself the equivalent of 1,600 pounds — “a lot of money for me then” — which he immediately spent on renting a villa, stocking it with food and drink, and entertaining nonstop. Ten days later, Bacon said, he could barely afford the fare back to London.
Monaco was more than just about fun and games. It was here that Bacon started developing his pope paintings, a few months after his arrival, by copying the Velázquez masterpiece Portrait of Innocent X (circa 1650).
“I don’t know how the copy of the Velázquez will turn out,” he wrote to his friend Graham Sutherland in December 1946. “I have practically finished one I think, and am going to start on a portrait I want to do, but it is thrilling to paint from a picture which really excites you.”
Bacon ended up destroying most of those early depictions of popes. One survivor, Head VI (1949) — a howling, caged figure in a purple shoulder cape — is in the exhibition. Next to it are his later paintings of popes and authority figures. Another source of inspiration for the series, in addition to the Velázquez portrait (represented in the show by a 19th-century copy), is a clip of the screaming nurse from the 1925 Sergei Eisenstein movie Battleship Potemkin.
Art historians interpret the popes as depictions of dictatorial figures, but also as evocations of Bacon’s father, a retired army major with whom the artist had a difficult relationship.
Although he lived for three years in Monaco, Bacon — a studio painter — scarcely ever depicted the Mediterranean coastline. It appears as a thin, ribbonlike blue strip that runs across two unrelated paintings in the show: Fragment of a Crucifixion (1950) and Dog (1952).
The exhibition illustrates the deep attachment that Bacon had to France, a country he first visited in his late teenage years and to which he often returned.
A robust Rodin sculpture of a woman stands beside equally corpulent and muscular Bacon male nudes. Picasso’s swirling and circular Femme couchée à la mèche blonde (1932) hangs next to Bacon’s similarly shaped Lying Figure in a Mirror (1971).
Bacon’s relationship with France reached its apotheosis in 1971, when he became the only living artist aside from Picasso to have a retrospective at the Grand Palais in Paris. Photographs show him smiling at the exhibition preview and at a celebratory dinner, surrounded by dignitaries and intellectuals.
Yet his public glory was coupled with personal tragedy: Two days before the preview, Bacon’s lover, George Dyer, who was in Paris with him, committed suicide. A posthumous depiction of Dyer (Portrait of a Man Walking Down Steps, 1972) is among the show’s most poignant displays.
Dyer reappears in the exhibition’s closing section — a partial recreation of Bacon’s studio at his death in 1992 — via a note that he wrote to Bacon in Paris, and a black-and-white photograph. Archival material consists of color photographs of the crowded atelier, and facsimiles of the paraphernalia that he left behind. These include a magazine cover picturing the Formula One driver Ayrton Senna, medical images of diseased feet and toenails (a major source of inspiration for Bacon), and a painting of a crucifixion by the 13th-century Italian artist Cimabue.
One standout document (an original) is a letter from Bacon to the Fiat chairman Gianni Agnelli, who had refused to lend Bacon’s three heads of Henrietta Moraes (an artists’ model) for the Grand Palais show.
“As it is probably the last retrospective exhibition I shall have,” Bacon writes in large, slanting cursive, “I would be very very grateful if you would change your mind and lend it, as I believe them to be one of the best sets of 3 heads I have done.”
Agnelli eventually agreed.
West Cork photographer
reflects on friendship with late painter Francis Bacon
West Cork photographer reflects on friendship with late painter Francis Bacon
photographer John Minihan was in Monaco recently to see an exhibition of
paintings by his late, great friend
West Cork-based photographer John Minihan was in Monaco recently to see an exhibition of paintings by his late, great friend
Irish Examiner | Wednesday, 10th August, 2016
The late artist Francis Bacon with photographer John Minihan
AN EXHIBITION of Francis Bacon’s paintings anywhere in the world is always a major artistic event. In Paris he has approached the status which was once accorded to Picasso. Hardly a month passes without reading about the artist whose paintings sell for record millions.
He’s also appreciated further south. I was invited recently to view the summer exhibition at Monte Carlo’s Grimaldi Forum, entitled Francis Bacon, Monaco and French Culture.
The installation with sensitive lighting guides the viewer from one room to another, each room more exhilarating than the other with Screaming Pope, Triptych’s, Heads by Bacon inevitably present, a portrait gallery of his friends, since the heads are always of people he knew, like Michel Leiris 1976; who was a close friend of the artist for many years.
For me it was a visual and emotional tour de-force — seeing the work that was so familiar to me for over 50 years and seeing others that have never been exhibited and were found by Martin Harrison who curated the Monaco exhibition and whose definitive five-volume catalogue raisonne (by the Estate of Francis Bacon, costing £1,000) was published in June, the most scholarly work on Francis Bacon now in print.
The extraordinary intense emotional charge in his works is still shocking and enthralling an ever- growing public, books about Bacon are constantly published with titles, Bacon and Picasso, Bacon and Henry Moore, Bacon and Rodin, Bacon and Nazi propaganda.
During the 1950s, Bacon lived in the south of France, and loved visiting his favourite city Paris, where he regularly visited the Musées Rodin. I first met and photographed the artist in 1971 outside the Marlborough Street Magistrates Court in London where he had just been found not guilty of possessing cannabis following a police raid.
He moved effortlessly from the high life to the world of the Colony Club in Dean Street, Soho. Hosted and founded by his friend Muriel Belcher, who created a refuge for Bacon along with petty criminals, actors, poets and those who were Beats of a certain generation. Sadly the Colony Club is no longer with us, those who knew Francis are diminishing in number, Soho is now very much a mixture of cafés and overpriced restaurants.
Attendees at the Grimaldi Forum in Monaco look at paintings by Francis Bacon.
Like many others I was captivated by the Colony Club and spent much of my time there in the early 70’s and 80’s.
Those who frequented it went there in the hope that Francis Bacon would be there in his affable and abusive manner, “Champagne for your real friends and real pain for your sham friends” was his favourite toast.
As obstreperous and obnoxious as he could be to people at the Colony, he was always kind to me inviting me to his show in Paris in 1977 at the Claude Bernard Gallery. I have fond memories of Francis sitting alone a few years before he died, having lunch and liquid refreshment at the most exquisite Bibendum Restaurant in what was the Michelin Building on the Fulham Road, a 10 minute walk from the Bacon Studio at 7 Reece Mews, South Kensington.
I remember calling him on the day of his retrospective at the Tate Gallery in 1985 and asking what time he would arrive, as I wanted to photograph him outside on the steps of what was then the original Tate Gallery, now renamed Tate Britain.
As always, his manner over the phone was welcoming and he said I should be there about 2pm as he would be arriving with his friend’s Richard Chopping and Denis Wirth-Miller for what was then his second retrospective at the Tate.
The press pack were already in the gallery waiting for Bacon who gave me the exclusive outside this illustrious building.
His subjects were always a handful of friends and himself painted from photographs.
He would often visit the Victoria and Albert Museum, near his studio Mews home, and look at the Eadweard Muybridge photographs in the collection, very often stopping at the Auto-photo booth in South Kensington tube station to pose for a sequence of head shots, that he would paint from.
Bacon created his own legend well before he became a Sunday supplement name.
Born in Dublin in 1909, moving between England and Ireland in his childhood, receiving little formal education — his time in Ireland was marked by the violence in the early years of the Troubles.
“I was aware of danger at a young age,” Bacon would say. It was a world from which Francis Bacon had to escape in order to invent himself.
Bacon at the Grimaldi Forum in Monte Carlo until September 4, 2016.
From Picasso and Matisse to Bacon and Freud, Artists' Rivals Are Also Their Greatest Assets
BY ABIGAIL CAIN
BY ABIGAIL CAIN| ARTSY EDITORIAL | ARTSY
Harry Diamond, Francis Bacon; Lucian Freud, 1974.
As he trailed Lucian Freud up the stairs of the artist’s Holland Park home, something caught art critic Sebastian Smee’s eye. There, hanging beside the studio door, was a “wanted” poster printed with an image of Freud’s Portrait of Francis Bacon (1952). The flyers had been part of an unsuccessful campaign to recover the work, which was stolen in 1988 from a Berlin museum. To this day, the portrait has never been found.
Bacon and Freud had famously befriended each other in London in the 1940s. But by the 1970s their relationship had completely unraveled. (The photograph, above, from the National Portrait Gallery’s collection captures their friendship near its end.) Even a decade after Bacon’s death in 1992, it was considered taboo to broach the subject with Freud during interviews. So why, Smee wondered, did the portrait of Bacon still hang next to his studio door?
“I knew that he wanted that painting back very much because of its quality,” Smee recently told Artsy. “But I also thought it must have been partly to do with the fact that the subject of the painting was this person who had played such a crucial role in his life and in his artistic career. And in that sense it felt poignant.”
For Smee, the lingering questions posed by the “wanted” poster served as the jumping off point for his latest book, The Art of Rivalry. Out August 16th, it traces the complicated relationships between four pairs of modern masters—Freud and Bacon, Picasso and Matisse, Manet and Degas, and Pollock and de Kooning. Although the term “rivalry” may conjure up visions of bitter adversaries pitted against each other, Smee believes that model is outdated. “The famous rivalries you hear about, whether it’s between Delaccroix and Ingres in the 19th century, or the famous Renaissance rivalries, they’re all about competing with your enemy—a kind of macho idea,” he said. “I detected something really different in these relationships between artists coming into the modern era.”
Instead of out-and-out competition, Smee spends much of the book exposing the layers of uneasy friendship and intimacy that existed between the pairs—subtle moments that are often overlooked in the art historical narrative. “I just related to it; I think perhaps we all can, if there are people in our lives who we are seduced by and impressed by,” Smee said. “We're drawn to them—and if they're an artist, their way of looking at things—and that's a very intoxicating feeling. But at the same time, we are made conscious of things that may be lacking in ourselves, and again, if we’re artists, in our own artistic approach.”
Freud’s relationship with the older Bacon came early in his artistic career. Although he always painted portraits, initially these were crafted in a childlike, innocent manner. The smooth surfaces and wide eyes of Freud’s early subjects were miles away from the eventual fleshy, paint-heavy portraits that would go on to define his oeuvre. It was Bacon’s risk-taking, his loose, smeared paint and fascination with the space surrounding his sitters, that inspired the younger artist. Freud later said, “I think that Francis’s way of painting freely helped me feel more daring.” Bacon’s influence led the painter—considered by critics to be an excellent draftsman—to give up drawing completely for several years, resulting in a rapid shift in style that alienated many of his supporters. In fact, art historian Kenneth Clark, one of the artist’s early admirers, never spoke to Freud again.
Henri Cartier-Bresson, Francis Bacon, London, 1971
Public rejection and disapproval often helped forge these artistic relationships. It wasn’t until the modern era that originality emerged as a factor in the way art was judged, a shift “that creates all sorts of problems,” Smee noted. “Once you value originality over so many other things, you lose hold of the criteria that used to exist to help us judge the quality of art. It affects the artists themselves in profound ways, because they’re suddenly unable to know for sure whether what they’ve just done is any good.”
Matisse’s experiments with Fauvism in the early years of the 20th century are one such example. These works, so far from accepted artistic practice at the time, provoked panic attacks, insomnia, and fierce anxiety as the painter considered public reaction. “In that context, other artists become incredibly important—people whose judgment you can trust, people who you can admire for their own originality and their own artistic virtues, whatever they may be,” Smee explained.
Matisse and Picasso served as each other’s sounding boards for years, with each pushing the other to new experiments and broader horizons. At first, it was Matisse who took the risks—painting with increasingly brighter colors in flatter and more saturated compositions. Picasso’s work, while original and capable, did not yet push boundaries in the same way as his fellow painter. But as the two of them spent hours together, often in the home of Leo and Gertrude Stein, Picasso started to chafe at living in the established artist’s shadow.
“I think Matisse deeply destabilized Picasso in a way that ended up being unbelievably fruitful for his whole artistic career,” Smee explained. “It’s a dynamic of being drawn to him and the things he was experimenting with and his influences, and yet at the same time pushing against him and trying to find his own identity and his own voice.” Inspired in part by the African masks that fascinated Matisse, Picasso commenced work on his eventual masterpiece, Les Demoiselles d’Avignon (1907). And while Matisse initially thought of Picasso as a protégé, the older artist eventually realized that the relationship might be more fluid than he first imagined—even taking cues from Picasso’s competing artistic school of Cubism.
ometimes the rivalries between the artists had an obvious visual representation. Such was the case with Manet and Degas, whose relationship came to head when Degas painted a portrait of his fellow artist and his wife, Suzanne. Inexplicably, Manet—who was known by all as an easygoing and affable man—slashed the painting in half, slicing through his wife’s face and body. Degas later began to repair the painting with a strip of canvas but never got around to repainting the missing portion. De Kooning and Pollock’s rivalry had an even more visceral personal connection. In a move that shocked the close-knit New York art world, de Kooning began an affair with Ruth Kligman, Pollock’s lover, soon after Pollock died in a car crash.
What is perhaps most intriguing, however, about Smee’s four pairings is the undercurrent of uncertainty that runs throughout. In a world where a Picasso sells for $179 million and a Pollock for $140 million, it can be easy to forget that these artists once felt insecure, even threatened, as they set out to create works that would redefine artmaking in the coming decades. “You really do feel their vulnerability in these early years,” Smee said. “And that’s something that when they’ve become haloed in this aura of greatness, you think, ‘Oh, it must have been always like that. They must have always known that they were great.’ And I just don't believe that at all.”
New Francis Bacon Exhibition Announced By Guggenheim Bilbao
Francis Bacon Exhibition, Guggenheim Museum Bilbao
Portrait of Michel Leiris, 1976, Francis Bacon
A new exhibition of the work of Francis Bacon titled Francis Bacon: From Picasso to Velázquez has been announced by the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao. The show presents a selection of nearly 80 of the Anglo-Irish artist's most compelling paintings, including some of his most important and yet least exhibited paintings. These are displayed alongside the works of the classic masters from French and Spanish culture who played an influential role in his career, including El Greco, Diego Velázquez, Toulouse-Lautrec, Pablo Picasso and Alberto Giacometti.
The exhibition will span six decades of Bacon's career over eight rooms, including his portraits, nudes, crucifixions, landscapes and bullfighting series, offering a new perspective on the artist's oeuvre by highlighting the impact that French and Spanish cultures exerted on his art. Visitors will be able to see one of his earliest works Composition (Figure) (1933) alongside Picasso's series of bathers, the monumental triptych Three Studies of Figures on Beds (1972) with John Philip's La Bomba (1863) and the Portrait of a Dwarf (1975) with Velázquez's The Buffoon el Primo (1664).
The human figure is at the core of most of his compositions, which reflect a stark existentialist view of the individual. Bacon painted extraordinarily expressive portraits with a large dose of authenticity, which means being alive in all senses and with all its consequences. He sought to capture the mystery of life and reduce reality to its essence, synthesizing it in the guise of paint.
Bacon created a new universe of images conceived via literature, film, art, and his own life using a totally unique language, reflecting human vulnerability with utter rawness. The exhibition will show how Bacon broke down many barriers that were deeply entrenched at the time, placing human beings in front of a mirror in which we could see ourselves in a raw, violent way. It will become apparent how Bacon was an avid consumer of French and Spanish culture, developing obsessions with the literary and visual works of the countries' masters from the sixteenth to the twentieth centuries, appropriating and twisting their visual language in order to create his own unique style.
The exhibition is organised by Guggenheim Museum Bilbao in collaboration with Grimaldi Forum Monaco, curated by Martin Harrison.
Francis Bacon from PICASSO
TO VELÁZQUEZ 9·30·2016/1·8·20 2017 Guggenheim Museum Bilbao
Francis Bacon from PICASSO TO VELÁZQUEZ 9·30·2016/1·8·20 2017 Guggenheim Museum Bilbao
'London Calling' at the Getty and the tension between abstract and figurative painting
By Christopher Knight
Times Art Critic
Los Angeles Times
29 July 2016
By Christopher Knight|
Times Art Critic|
Los Angeles Times|
29 July 2016
The center panel of Bacon's triptych derives from Eadweard Muybridge's 19th-century photographic studies of wrestlers
Is the School of London real?
A new exhibition at the J. Paul Getty Museum features six prominent painters working in London in the decades following World War II, and it assumes as much — although without making a vigorous case for their coherence as an artistic school one way or the other. “London Calling: Bacon, Freud, Kossoff, Andrews, Auerbach, and Kitaj” is a pretty loose-limbed show. It hinges on what the artists didn’t do rather than what they did.
What they didn’t do is make abstract paintings.
Postwar art saw abstraction definitively push figurative painting to the margins, where it mostly languished for a generation. Pushback came from several quarters in the 1950s and into the early 1960s. It rumbled through Willem de Kooning’s “Woman” paintings, as well as the black paintings of Jackson Pollock. Most notably as a group, it fueled the great Bay Area figurative paintings of David Park, Richard Diebenkorn, Elmer Bischoff and Joan Brown.
It came from London too. Elena Crippa — the Tate Britain curator who co-organized the show with Getty director Timothy Potts and drawings curator Julian Brooks — notes “the central role granted to the human figure” in the British painters’ work.
All but 12 of the show’s 51 paintings come from the Tate, which has considerable depth in these artists’ work. Each gets his own room in “London Calling.” Two-thirds of the way through, a seventh room mixes 27 small studies and works on paper by all six. The artists were friends, colleagues and carousing pals, and eventually they all showed their work with the same London gallery (Marlborough Fine Art)
Yet the artistic differences among them is most often dramatic. It’s a very long way from the strangled heads and twisted torsos of Francis Bacon to the lurching London streets of Leon Kossoff or the gooey painted flesh of a Lucian Freud nude.
The show’s title, “London Calling,” is somewhat incongruously drawn from the postpunk 1979 album of that name by the band the Clash. It’s incongruous because the painters were at least a generation older than the twentysomething British bandmates. But the “clash” slyly being intimated by the show is between these painters as committed figurative artists in an era dominated by abstraction.
I think that misses the mark.
That sort of clash is more fittingly applied to an art movement like the one known in Britain as Stuckism, which elevates often untutored figurative expression above the dominance of academic Conceptual art. Stuckism is reactionary. The highly refined paintings at the Getty are anything but.
Rather than oppose dominant abstraction, these artists probe the tension between the figurative and the abstract. The friction yields the paintings’ energy. Techniques of radical abstraction are used as a powerful tool in constructing a compelling image.
The show’s first great painting to navigate those shoals is Frank Auerbach’s riveting “Oxford Street Building Site I” (1959-60), which piles on thick slathers of oil paint. London was being rebuilt after the urban ruin of wartime blitzkriegs, and Auerbach positioned his painting to be as much of a physical, material construction site as the scene it depicts.
The palette is a wide array of browns — raw umber, chestnut, russet, burnt sienna and more. Red, green, black, white and other submerged colors enter the mix, but the dominant browns that Auerbach troweled on attach the gravity associated with Old Master painting to his own work. Engorged layers of firm, deliberate strokes of clotted paint are themselves objectified, even as they describe objects like machinery, a fence or a steel I-beam.
As surely as Britain was rebuilding London, Auerbach was engaged in rebuilding British painting, which had mostly languished in the Modern era. And he used abstraction as one forceful implement in his toolbox. The conjoined construction of image and canvas manufactures a painting as edifice.
The show opens with six paintings by Michael Andrews (1928-1995), the least-known, least captivating of the group. His work ranges from precisionist realism, which recalls the measured tedium in paintings by his teacher, Sir William Coldstream, to optically distorted realism, which also follows Coldstream’s dull commitment to painting only what the eye sees.
Andrews’ best work is an eccentric view of himself teaching his young daughter to swim. The child’s kicking, flailing feet dissolve into flecked splashes of light, while refraction through the dark water turns the adult’s foot into an oversize, stable anchor. A familial narrative merges with a salute to conformist tradition.
Next comes Auerbach, whose inventive fusion of abstraction and figuration packs a sudden wallop. (On first view, several landscapes could be mistaken for being completely abstract.)
Kossoff, whose thickly gestural canvases are stylistically most like Auerbach’s, chronicles the grinding anxieties of modern city life. And American expatriate R.B. Kitaj (1932-2007), who first proposed (and then withdrew) the School of London moniker, painted literary themes in overlapping, abruptly clipped planes that recall torn collages.
The two most well-known artists, Freud (1922-2011) and Bacon (1909-1992), occupy the final two rooms. Mostly they share artistic celebrity.
Freud (psychoanalyst Sigmund’s grandson) is among the most overrated painters of our time. Nine of the 14 canvases are in the repetitive post-1970 style that linked him to international developments in Neo-Expressionism. Impasto paint becomes sensuous skin in nudes whose eccentric poses are sometimes claimed to expose underlying states of psychological strain in the confrontational dialog between artist and model.
Yet it is the confrontational dialog between painting and viewer in his earlier work that is infinitely more captivating. The thinly painted, finely wrought 1947 picture of a staring young woman who wraps her white-knuckled hand around a kitten’s neck is as weirdly mesmerizing as anything in German New Objectivity painting from before the war. Made in its immediate aftermath, the woman’s gesture is somewhere between caressing and strangling innocence and autonomy. A chill goes up your spine.
Bacon’s seven paintings are capped by a big triptych of disquieting figures trapped within flat, blank, geometric voids and caged in a wide, golden frame — a Bacon signature. Art, like life, is its own prison, yet also a place for transgression.
A seated self-portrait on the right is loosely mirrored in a seated portrait at the left showing his lover, George Dyer, who had committed suicide barely 10 months before. In the triptych’s center, the spot where a traditional religious painting would put the Virgin Mary or a crucified Christ, a blob of two entwined figures grapples in a macabre dance of sex and death. Before 1969, homosexual coupling was criminal under British law.
The slick, carefully contrived elegance of Bacon’s paint handling is regularly interrupted by oozing discharges of color. There is no narrative here, only direct visual sensation connected to visceral experience.
“London Calling” is unusual — even unprecedented — for the Getty. It’s the museum’s first-ever historical survey in the field of 20th century painting. The Getty’s own European painting collection ends circa 1900, and the conceit is that contemporary British figurative painting is being connected to a collection of pre-Modern European painting. That’s pretty wobbly.
I’m not so sure we really need yet another art museum to present overviews of contemporary art, especially one with the Getty’s distinctive capacity to explore just about anything else. But if it is to be, perhaps connections of more depth can be drawn.
Bacon’s paintings, for instance, were profoundly influenced by camera images — photojournalism, film stills from Sergei Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin, medical albums, Eadweard Muybridge’s animal locomotion studies (the center panel in the show’s triptych comes from the British-born California photographer’s studies of wrestlers) and more. The Getty, given its unparalleled photography collections, is uniquely positioned to examine such an angle.
‘London Calling: Bacon, Freud,
Kossoff, Andrews, Auerback and Kitaj’
‘London Calling: Bacon, Freud, Kossoff, Andrews, Auerback and Kitaj’
Where: J. Paul Getty Museum, 1200
Getty Center Drive, Brentwood.
Where: J. Paul Getty Museum, 1200 Getty Center Drive, Brentwood.
When: Tuesdays through Sundays,
through Nov. 13. Closed Mondays.
When: Tuesdays through Sundays, through Nov. 13. Closed Mondays.
Admission: Free. (Parking $10-$15.)
Admission: Free. (Parking $10-$15.)
Essex artists' hell-raising
adventures in Wivenohe with Francis Bacon feature in new publication The
Essex artists' hell-raising adventures in Wivenohe with Francis Bacon feature in new publication The Visitors' Book
Andrew Hirst |
Ipswich Star 28 July 2016
28 July 2016
Francis Bacon and Richard Chopping in a cafe
Their hell-raising antics in a small riverside town in north-east Essex became the stuff of local legend.
With week-long parties of hedonistic excess, Denis Wirth-Miller and Richard “Dickie” Chopping carved out a bohemian enclave in sleepy Wivenhoe.
Among their guests were famous artists including Francis Bacon, Robert Colquhoun and Robert MacBryde, who would enjoy wild nights of debauchery away from their regular Fitzrovia haunts.
Esteemed artists in their own right – Wirth-Miller for his landscape paintings and Chopping as an illustrator for Ian Fleming’s James Bond novels – they both fell away from the limelight towards the end of their lives. Now, however, the full extent of their story and the roles they played in Britain’s turbulent post-war art scene is being revealed in never-before-seen detail.
Denis Wirth-Miller and Richard Chopping
Jon Lys Turner, a close personal friend of the couple, was bequeathed their extensive personal archive; a collection of letters, notes and unseen material, which he has used to write The Visitors’ Book.
Described by the Tate gallery as “one of the most important finds in decades”, the archive offers a unique insight into the couple’s lives together and the intriguing social scene around them.
Turner, himself a successful creative designer, was at first unsure what to do with his inheritance.
But after arousing the interest of arts experts, who were captivated by its contents, he started the painstaking four-year process of cataloguing the vast array of material.
The collection covers decades of their life together, from when they first met at a Noel Coward show in 1937, through to Bacon’s death in 1992.
Some of their earliest days together came when Wirth-Miller was studying at the East Anglian School of Painting and Drawing in Hadleigh, alongside Lucian Freud.
Some of the archive materials
Turner said the art school was popular for young men from London during the war.
“It was almost like Fitzrovia in the country,” he said.
“They could get way from London and come and have a lovely time getting roaring drunk at this huge house.”
The couple’s Wivenhoe home, which they renovated from an old storehouse in 1945, is where much of the book revolves.
“It was the bedrock to everything that went on,” explained Turner.
Here they would play host to their artistic contemporaries, a group of mostly gay young men, who pushed social boundaries for their art.
Turner described their nights in Wivenhoe as “unpredictable, lively and potentially dangerous”.
“There are some pretty hair-raising stories in this book,” he added.
“They made the next generation look like amateurs when it came to drinking, debauchery and promiscuity.”
While Turner said many of the town’s pubs would ban the men for their drunken behaviour, he claims the letters show how they were accepted and welcomed in the community, despite their unconventional lifestyles.
Michael Parkin, one of the artists who visited the couple in Wivenhoe, said it retained a similar atmosphere to the community portrayed in Under Milk Wood by Dylan Thomas.
Turner added: “They lived against the law as a same-sex couple but they were accepted, loved and embraced by the people.”
The book also shows how destructive some of their relationships could be, particularly the friendship between Wirth-Miller and Bacon.
Bacon, who defined friendship as “two people pulling each other to pieces”, would argue fiercely with Wirth-Miller, and was a harsh critic of his work.
Turner describes how Bacon turned up “blind drunk” to one of his friend’s exhibitions at the Wivenhoe Art Club and started slating the paintings on display.
“The opening was closed down, people were ushered out and Denis went to pieces,” he added.
“He totally destroyed the whole show and did not paint for years
“Bacon had knocked him down, not just publicly, but in Wivenhoe, where he felt most at home.”
Having humiliated his friend, further details emerged of Bacon’s attempts to help Wirth-Miller, painting together on the same canvas.
“I found that to be a real revelation,” Turner said.
The Visrtors' Book
Turner first met the couple at the Royal College of Art in 1981, where he was studying for his masters degree.
While he has been shocked by some of their behaviour he said he would always remember them kindly.
“For me, they completely changed my life,” he added.
“I would not have attended the Royal College unless I had won a scholarship and so, the fact they believed in me and helped me along was amazing.
“I loved them dearly, as though they were uncles or part of my family.
“But I also found from doing this, some of the reviews of their work have been rather disparaging, calling them lesser artists.
“I don’t believe that their work was not important.
“They were the glue that held this early co-operative of artists together.
“I hope that by doing this I can bring their work to a wider audience.”
The Visitors’ Book, was published by Constable last month.
Some of the book’s
Some of the book’s intriguing details
Francis Bacon would only have his hair cut in Colchester. Letters from the artist while in France contain reference to his need to return to see the couple so that he could have his hair cut.
Denis Wirth-Miller was a friend of Prince Yusupov, the Russian who took part in the assassination of Rasputin. When Chopping met Wirth Miller for the second time, he was in Cafe Royale in London with the Russian.
The painting Man in the Black Cravat, now proven to have been almost certainly painted by Lucian Freud, is thought to have a portrait of John Jameson, of the Irish whisky family. Jameson was a contemporary of Freud and Wirth-Miller at the East Anglian School of Painting in Hadleigh, where he was rumoured to have pursued an interest in witchcraft.
Monaco pays homage to
Francis Bacon, artist and gambler extraordinaire
Monaco pays homage to Francis Bacon, artist and gambler extraordinaire
The Australian Financial
28 July 2016
The Australian Financial Review|
28 July 2016
Francis Bacon in 1984.The artist loved the sunny shadiness of Monaco, returning often for extensive stays
Francis Bacon loved to gamble. More than anything else – apart from making art, of course – he loved to gamble at the casino in Monte Carlo, the most famous in the world. "You could go in at 10 in the morning and not come out 'til about four the following morning," declared the Irish-born roué, who apparently did this a lot when living in Monaco, that tiny, showy principality on an ancestral rock in the French Riviera.
Francophile and bon vivant, painter of screaming popes and robust gay sex
scenes, Bacon was already a hugely famous artist when he died in Madrid in 1992
aged 82, a week before he was due to lunch in Monte Carlo with a friend. But few
could have predicted the levels to which his posthumous fame would skyrocket: in
November 2013, a painting by Bacon of his friend Lucien Freud became the world's
most expensive artwork sold at auction, fetching a staggering $US142.4 million
The Tate Gallery in Liverpool is presenting the largest exhibition of Bacon's work staged in the north of England, and the Getty Centre in Los Angeles, drawing from the Tate in London, is featuring Bacon among six postwar British artists who revolutionised and reinvigorated figurative painting. (Australians got up close to the artist's controversial oeuvre in 2013 when the Art Gallery of New South Wales hosted a five-decade retrospective.)
Here in Monte Carlo, down on the seafront, the great glass-domed Grimaldi Forum
is hosting Francis Bacon, Monaco and French Culture, a major new
exhibition that celebrates the years in the late 1940s and early '50s when Bacon
lived in Monaco and southern France; a period, argue Monégasques, that gave
Bacon his oomph, his guts. That made him.
"Bacon was always returning to Monaco for extensive stays with friends, family and lovers," says Cecilia Auber, our guide at the Francis Bacon Art Foundation, a not-for-profit institute on the ground floor of a small villa in the hilly streets behind the central, long-established Hotel Metropole, rebuilt in 1989 a la belle époque (the "beautiful age" before the First World War) and glimmering at the end of a drive dotted with white statues, as if magicked out of history.
Bacon first pitched in Monaco in 1946, staying at the compact Hotel dé Ré before moving from villa to villa – bijou residences not dissimilar to that occupied by the foundation, which was inaugurated by Prince Albert II in 2014 on 28 October, Bacon's birthday.
"It was in Monaco that Francis Bacon started painting the human form," says the chic, straight-backed Auber, stewarding us past the likes of 1929's Watercolour, Bacon's earliest surviving painting. "It is also where he began painting on the raw, unprimed side of the canvas."
Order from chance
There she is at the tres exclusive Yacht Club de Monaco, with its landmark
clubhouse designed by Sir Norman Foster and marina of sleek super-yachts flying
the distinctive red-and-white burgee. There, at Thermes Marins, an opulent spa
linked by subterranean corridors to the Hotel Hermitage and the aforementioned
Hotel de Paris – home to Alain Ducasse's three-Michelin-starred restaurant Louis
XV, done up in chandeliers, cherubs and gold leaf and boasting a superlative
tasting menu delivered with Swiss timing and almost balletic grace.
There she is too, at the Wine Palace, a new venue built on the prow of the Yacht Club and kitted out in oak, bronze and dark red leather, with 2300 wines and spirits in its temperature-controlled cellar, complimentary delivery to yachts both berthed and at sea and good-looking staff with serious vinous knowledge.
Foundation interior with a portrait of Francis Bacon in his studio, London 1977, by Carlos Freire.
Asked to name their most expensive tipple, our sommelier Joshua doesn't hesitate. "Last month we sold a double magnum of 1986 Pétrus for €20,000 [$29,500]," he says, though he won't say to whom. With just 36,000 permanent residents including Ringo Starr, Shirley Bassey and Novak Djokovic, and regular A-list visitors such as Rihanna and Leonardo DiCaprio, Monaco (and Lady Luck) insists upon, and receives, discretion.
Bacon, who loved a drink, once mistook a bottle of Pétrus for cooking wine and made a stew that was talked about for weeks says Auber, indicating a black-and-white photograph of the artist, dishevelled after a long lunch in Soho, his other spiritual stomping ground.
The foundation's collection includes more than 2300 items ranging from photos
provided by Sydney-based artist Eddie Batache, a long-time friend, and triptychs
featuring Bacon's ill-fated lover George Dyer, to a Paris bathroom door signed
by French surrealists including André Masson and Pierre Soulages and completely
covered with drawings of penises.
"It is," says Auber sagely, "a homage to the phallus."
But despite the eye-popping door and the emotionally charged paintings (some of
which feature in the Grimaldi Forum show) the overall vibe of the foundation is
understated and elegant. Curtains, tassels and low-hanging bulbs are drawn from
Bacon iconography; interior walls are shades of grey, in keeping with his
What Bacon, who lived simply and messily, throwing out much of his work, would have made of this neat, intense homage is anyone's guess.
"Great art always returns you to the vulnerability of the human situation," declares a wall decal – as indeed, Bacon might have added, does great gambling.
From OK to KO-ed
The sun and the shadiness were relished by Bacon, who loved nothing more than to take the Train Bleu, the sleeper from Paris, which pulled in right beside the casino – and offered, en route, strangers to meet.
These days, visitors to the casino tend to fly in via helicopter from Nice, or
hop off a cruise ship or super yacht moored in the marina at Port Hercules, the
natural deep-water bay at the foot of the landmark Rock of Monaco. Sensibly,
perhaps, Monégasques are forbidden from gambling in the casino, sparing them
from the addiction that gripped Bacon who early on and desperate for cash, had
hoped to sell his work there.
"I always feel with a little clever manipulation the casino would buy our pictures," he wrote to friends in 1946.
It didn't, and instead the rooms are lavishly decorated with sculptures and paintings of sensuous, Lady Luck-like women, overseeing winners and losers all day and all night long.
Postcard from Dublin
InterContinental hotel is offering wealthy art fans a unique private view
–a champagne reception for two in Francis Bacon's studio
N igel Tisdall
The Financial Times
26 July 2016
The Financial Times|
26 July 2016
Bacon in the dining car of the Orient Express with his lover and model George Dyer
Photographs of Francis Bacon often show the artist sitting amid the chaos of his London studio like a bomb survivor surrounded by debris. For 31 years, until his death in 1992, one of the greatest figurative painters of the late 20th century worked in a dingy rented mews space, just six metres by four, that was reached by a steep wooden staircase with a rope handrail. “I cannot work in places that are too tidy,” he declared, with notable understatement.
In 1998, this crucible of creativity was donated to the Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane where, three years later, it was put on show in a purpose-built space — an astonishing feat of relocation that cost over €2m. Even the dust was carefully bagged up and then resprinkled.
Along with the studio, the Hugh Lane acquired an archive of over 7,000 items — including 1,500 photographs, 100 slashed canvases and 70 drawings. Academics can make requests to see these, and some of them are loaned out to exhibitions, but they can now for the first time be viewed privately, by tourists with deep pockets, through a collaboration with the InterContinental Dublin hotel. Set in leafy, wealthy Ballsbridge, this five-star is keen to align itself with modern Irish art, with over 80 works by leading artists such as Sean Scully, Louis le Brocquy and Brian Maguire currently displayed in its public spaces. Its tie-up with the Hugh Lane is part of a range of “insider experiences” being offered by 16 InterContinental hotels across Europe.
While some are interesting if you happen to be there (goldsmithing in Athens, watchmaking in Geneva), the Dublin hotel’s offer seems most likely to merit a special trip, especially in these days of packed-out blockbuster exhibitions and private views that are not at all private. Its package for two people includes the Hugh Lane being opened in the evening just for you and special access to the Bacon archives for two hours. Once at the gallery, guests are served champagne and hosted by Dr Barbara Dawson, the genial director of the Hugh Lane and the Bacon expert who pulled off the extraordinary coup of getting his studio transferred to Dublin.
What has this box of wonders got to do with Ireland? Bacon may have been a keen traveller but his famous atelier was in South Kensington, his spiritual home in Soho, and he was very much a London-lover. He was, however, born in Dublin in 1909 and lived in Ireland, on and off, until the age of 16, when his father kicked him out after discovering him trying on his mother’s underwear. He headed for London, Berlin and then Paris, where Bacon discovered Picasso. The rest is art history.
A great deal of the archive’s treasures came from the sea of apparent rubbish found on the studio floor, and Dawson has selected 21 items to show me (visitors can nominate particular subjects in advance). Two technicians in disposable gloves and steel-toe-capped trainers lay the exhibits out as if they are holy relics, turning pages with spatulas and keeping a watchful eye. “This is not a shrine,” Dawson insists, “it’s an investigation into the painting process.” Some of what we view is little more than ephemera — a business card from the Lowell Hotel in New York, a cheque to Wheeler’s restaurant in London. You can smell the turps on a 1988 Observer Magazine devoted to Irish personalities. Other items have more force, such as a fragmented photo of Lucian Freud sitting on a bed, which clearly influenced the 1969 triptych “Three Studies of Lucian Freud” (a work that sold for $142m in 2013). “This was all found in the chaos,” Dawson sighs.
As with all the best exhibitions, it is the unexpected discoveries that get under the skin. For me it’s an archive photo of Bacon in the dining car of the Orient Express, taken in 1965 with his lover and model George Dyer. It is a happy, tender, after-lots-of-wine snapshot, in marked contrast to the dark seriousness of his work. As Dawson puts it: “Bacon made paintings of the human psyche — and what does it take to do that?” There’s no simple answer, but it is a privilege to be alone with the studio in which he created so many astounding works, talking about such things. And when you see the many empty Krug boxes spread around his “chaos”, it seems only fitting to be doing so with a chilled glass of champagne in hand.
Francis Bacon e la Francia.
Una mostra a Montecarlo
Francis Bacon e la Francia. Una mostra a Montecarlo
Il grande artista irlandese sbarca al Forum Grimaldi monegasco, dove è allestita una imponente mostra dedicata al legame tra Bacon e la terra francese. Oltre sessanta opere che guardano alle origini e alle evoluzioni della sua pittura.
Edmondo Bertaina | Artribune | sabato, 23 luglio 2016
Francis Bacon. Monaco e la cultura francese - installation view at Grimaldi Forum, Monaco 2016
BACON, IL MONEGASCO
È il 2011 quando lo scrittore Jonathan Littell dà alle stampe per l’editore Gallimard il libro Trittico, tre studi da Francis Bacon, che in Italia arriva solo nel 2014 per Einaudi, tradotto da Luca Bianco.
Il trittico preso in considerazione nel testo, punto di avvio di un approfondito excursus sulla vita e sull’opera di Bacon è quello datato intorno al 1944 e conosciuto come Tre studi di figure ai piedi di una crocifissione.
Un’opera di grande formato, conservata alla Tate di Londra, e concessa in prestito insieme a molte altre per l’esposizione annuale che il Forum Grimaldi di Montecarlo dedica quest’anno al grande pittore nato a Dublino nel 1909 da genitori inglesi e che a Monaco visse a più riprese a partire dal 1940. Francis Bacon. Monaco e la cultura francese è il titolo della mostra curata da Martin Harrison e composta da ben 63 opere; una delle sue particolarità è la panoramica comparativa mirata a illustrare le opere dei grandi maestri da cui Francis Bacon prese spunto: Giacometti, Léger, Lurçat, Michaux, Soutine, Toulouse-Lautrec. Senza dimenticare che Bacon iniziò a dipingere sul serio poco prima dei quarant’anni e produsse le sue opere più importanti intorno ai sessanta.
Francis Bacon. Monaco e la cultura francese - installation view at Grimaldi Forum, Monaco 2016
UN DANDY GENIALE
Il solo grande trittico, enigmatico, diabolico e intimo, vale la visita di questa retrospettiva dedicata al geniale dandy che al corpo, al suo essere specchio deformato dei fantasmi interiori della modernità ha dedicato la vita.
Nel libro sopracitato, le parole di Manuela Mena, curatrice al Prado di Madrid, luogo in cui Bacon amava recarsi per ammirare Goya e Velázquez, racchiudono una interessante interpretazione del celebre quadro dai biomorfi dentati: “… le figure sono rappresentate in tre modi diversi. Quella a destra è direttamente investita dalla luce, piena di autorità; quella al centro lascia trapelare insicurezza; quella a sinistra dimostra paura, sottomissione. E quella al centro è così a causa delle altre due, che insieme la affrontano e la minacciano. La figura a destra ha un’apparenza mascolina; la sua zampa è saldamente puntata nel terreno, in una zolla d’erba; la figura sulla sinistra invece ha una sembianza materna. La figura centrale combina elementi maschili e femminili, come accade spesso quando Bacon rappresenta se stesso”.
Francis Bacon. Monaco e la cultura francese - installation view at Grimaldi Forum, Monaco 2016
CORPO E PITTURA
Il Forum Grimaldi, posto tra terra e mare e sormontato da un’enorme A, a encomio di Alberto di Monaco, costruisce un percorso austero fatto di altissime pareti nere e grigie in cui le opere sono incasellate e illuminate magistralmente. Le cri, La caverne noire, La France et Monaco sono le denominazioni delle prime sale, il nero viene poi attutito con un viola scuro per Le Corps humain e, attraverso un gioco di grandi cornici di metallo nero, ispirate alle gabbie di Bacon, si passa alle bianchissime pareti delle sale successive, Les derniers opus, e ai Portraits; qui spiccano le tele dell’ultimo periodo, dove l’artista gioca con i colori caldi e freddi per ottenere i suoi tipici grandi effetti spaziali e dove trovano dimora moltissimi ritratti.
La cascata di pittura impeccabilmente controllata, la sua vastità simbolica, la crudele innocenza quasi infantile, sbigottiscono e seducono offrendo allo spettatore il corpo, inteso sia come materia lirica sia come fantasma, e la straziane difficoltà di abitarlo.
Monaco // fino al 4 settembre 2016
Francis Bacon. Monaco e la cultura francese
a cura di Martin Harrison
10 Avenue Princesse Grace
377 99 99 20 00
All together now: on the
Francis Bacon catalogue raisonné
All together now: on the Francis Bacon
The complete collection of Francis Bacon's paintings is published - at last
by Alexander Adams | The Art Newspaper | 21 July 2016
It was an absurdity that until June of this year Francis Bacon (1909-92), the foremost British painter of the 20th century and one of the giants of Modernist art, did not have a catalogue raisonné. Researchers had to scour miscellaneous catalogues (including the incomplete 1964 catalogue raisonné compiled by Ronald Alley) in search of images and data. Now, Francis Bacon: Catalogue Raisonné, a grand five-volume affair (boxed and bound in dark-grey cloth) documents 584 paintings by Bacon.
No expense was spared in preparing this catalogue. Paintings dispersed worldwide were traced and examined, new photographs commissioned, and technical research carried out. Volume one contains an introductory essay and chronology by Martin Harrison, the Bacon expert. The chronology (illustrated by rare and previously unpublished photographs) draws on primary sources while an essay discusses Bacon’s techniques and materials. Volume five contains Krzysztof Cieszkowski’s extensive bibliography, listing hundreds of items. This volume also reproduces several dozen drawings in dilute oil paint that Bacon did on scraps of paper and book flyleaves. It leaves open the question of whether these cursory outlines should be considered visual notations, skeletal paintings or painterly drawings.
Volumes two, three and four catalogue all the surviving paintings and those photographed before destruction or loss. Each is given a full-page colour illustration (large triptychs are given fold-out pages); facing pages of technical data are supplemented by exhibition history. There are several paragraphs of discussion about the history and condition of paintings, possible influences and sources. The reproductions are exceptionally good: extremely crisp, colour-accurate, with actual-size details so clear you feel you could run your hands over the canvases. Bacon’s paintings have never looked better.
Bacon’s motto was “the National Gallery or the dustbin”. “Bacon destroyed many hundreds of paintings,” Harrison notes, for failing to meet to his standards. There are numerous accounts by collectors of visiting the studio and witnessing Bacon slashing paintings with a straight-edge razor in front of the appalled spectators. Over the years Bacon sometimes set up temporary studios in St Ives, Monte Carlo, Tangiers and at the houses of friends. When he vacated studios he would give abandoned paintings to local painter friends so they could paint on the backs of the canvases. Naturally, the painters rarely did any such thing; they sold the paintings for whatever they could get.
One of the revelations of this publication is Lying Figure (around 1953), a beautifully painted recumbent male nude. Bacon abandoned the unfinished painting in a temporary studio and when it resurfaced he would not permit to be included in exhibitions.
The development of Bacon’s career is fairly well established. The mystery period is 1929 to 1944, during which time Bacon moved from furniture and rug design to painting. There are only 15 extant works between 1929 and around 1936 and then nothing until the famous triptych of 1944. The catalogue can shed no light on the 1936-44 period.
During the Second World War Bacon found a unique approach by painting melded, damaged figures in complex, spatially ambiguous interiors. From 1946 until around 1957 he generally painted single figures or animals in linear cages, subdued in colour, against black backgrounds. The period 1957 to 1962 was a transitional one, characterised by a dominance of green grounds and the development of a more energetic and colourful approach to figure painting. From 1962 until his death in 1992, Bacon refined his late mature style of contorted faces and reconfigured bodies against audaciously coloured, dramatic interiors.
The catalogue documents all this and adds new works: portraits of Bacon’s last love, José Capelo, his last complete painting (of a bull, to be exhibited soon in Monaco) and some others. Harrison has described the publication of this catalogue not as the end of a period but the beginning of a reassessment. For the first time it lets us see everything that the artist allowed to leave the studio. Bacon’s great achievement has been matched by this impeccably thorough and beautiful catalogue.
• Alexander Adams is an artist and
poet based in Bristol. His latest book, On Dead Mountain, is published by
• Alexander Adams is an artist and poet based in Bristol. His latest book, On Dead Mountain, is published by Golconda
Bacon el jugador
Bacon el jugador
Montecarlo ofrece la primera
parte de la exposición del pintor que tendrá continuidad en otoño en Bilbao. En
ellas se pone al día su relación con la cultura francesa y la pintura española
Montecarlo ofrece la primera parte de la exposición del pintor que tendrá continuidad en otoño en Bilbao. En ellas se pone al día su relación con la cultura francesa y la pintura española
Mercè Ibarz - E L PAÍS - 20 Jul
L PAÍS - 20 Jul 2016
Francis Bacon con Joan Miró y André Masson en la inauguración de su retrospectiva en París en 1971
En una carta de 1952 Francis Bacon escribe a sir Colin Anderson, su mecenas entonces, muy preocupado por las repetidas pérdidas del artista en el casino de Montecarlo: “Un día me gustaría explicarle el vicio del juego. Para mí, está íntimamente ligado a la pintura”. Le cuenta que al igual que a veces oye cómo elcroupier apela al número que finalmente ganará un gran pote, sus telas más logradas son un asunto de “suerte” y “casualidad”. No porque sus imágenes se le hubieran impuesto de manera automática sino por ser el resultado de un desafío a la pintura en el que la suerte es “el movimiento accidental del pincel”. Bello, ¿no?
Son algunas de las cosas sobre el pintor de altísima fama hoy que se pueden aprender y apreciar en la excelente exposición que el Forum Grimaldi y la Fundación Francis Bacon presentan en Montecarlo hasta el 4 de septiembre, una muy hermosa muestra a cargo del historiador Martin Harrison, autor asimismo del catálogo razonado del artista editado este mismo año. Para quienes creemos en momentos culturales de probada importancia, este año Bacon es uno. Por el catálogo razonado y por esta exposición de doble recorrido. En la capital monegasca, Harrison presenta las relaciones de Bacon con la cultura francesa. En el Guggenheim bilbaíno presentará en octubre la relación baconiana con la pintura española, a la que habrá que volver porque ciertamente es de envergadura: Picasso, Velázquez, Goya, Miró, Zuloaga...
Si la desgracia abatida sobre Niza y la Riviera francesa no es impedimento para comentar esta exposición y animar a verla, tampoco cabe pensar que el principado de Mónaco se dedique en materia cultural a programar cualquier cosa por ser lo que es en otros aspectos. Más bien su política cultural y la oceanográfica son su contrapeso. Mónaco no es Marbella, por decirlo suave. Desde luego, muchos residen aquí para blanquear su dinero. Otros, como Bacon en 1946, para jugar en el casino.
El pintor de nacimiento irlandés en 1909 y muerte madrileña en 1992 pasó largas temporadas aquí. Se sabe muy poco de su vida artística hasta entonces. Cuenta Harrison que aunque empezó a pintar en 1927 se conservan únicamente veintisiete dibujos y telas de los diecinueve años transcurridos hasta que en julio de 1946 se instaló en Montecarlo. Bacon hizo cruz y raya. Llegó a la ciudad mediterránea gracias a su primera tela vendida aquel mismo año y con una imagen en mente: el retrato de Velázquez del Papa Inocencio II. Una de las obras que por primera vez se ven en exposición es Paisaje con Papa/Dictador, realizada ya en Mónaco. Aquí pintaría las demás telas que parten del cuadro velazqueño en diálogo con el grito de una mujer en el film El acorazado Potemkin de Einsentein. Iconos perdurables, eternos.
Paisaje con Papa/Dictador produce escalofrío baconiano en estado puro. Oscuro, muy oscuro, en el centro está un desdibujado Papa de color morado que grita mientras por su derecha revolotean batallones alados y, a su espalda, el panteón de la civilización clásica no puede protegerle. Es clave su fecha, tras la II Guerra Mundial, y su título, que por primera vez, pero también la única vez en Bacon, apela de manera fuerte a que tras Auschwitz e Hiroshima no hay representante de Dios en la Tierra que valga. Mirar pinturas como si estuvieran fuera del tiempo no es de recibo.
La muestra es en gran medida una revelación de conjunto. Tantísimas obras son inéditas, que por algo Harrison las conoce todas. Lo son incluso para la vecina Francia, que cree sin razón saberlo todo sobre Bacon. París le consagró en 1971 en el Grand Palais, un museo que previamente sólo se había abierto a Picasso (los museos entonces no acogían a artistas vivos). Pero mucho de Bacon había sucedido en Mónaco.
Así la casualidad, el azar, el accidente, resultado del juego. Bacon se pasaba las noches en el casino y a menudo salía sin un céntimo. Al regresar a casa pintaba. Pero un día, sin dinero y sin telas preparadas para pintar, dio la vuelta a un cuadro y se puso a trabajar en la tela sin preparar. De la rugosidad y las muchas capas de pintura necesarias para aplacarla, que dieron una textura casi de cuero, nació en Montecarlo el Bacon definitivo. Ahí es nada.
Si van por allí, no se pierdan una visita (concertada) a la Fundación Bacon, en una pequeña villa urbana que alberga indicios muy interesantes del pintor. Así la puerta del retrete de uno de sus estudios parisinos, pintarrajeada con dibujos pornográficos de sus invitados pintores, Soulages uno de ellos.
Mercè Ibarz es escritora y profesora de la UPF.
Francis Bacon at Monaco's
Francis Bacon at Monaco's Grimaldi Forum
An exhibition and a new catalogue show us more about 'the last great European Mondernist'
by: Jackie Wullschlager The
Financial Times July
by: Jackie Wullschlager|
The Financial Times|
July 20, 2016
Triptych — Studies of the Human Body (1970) Francis Bacon
Sometime between 1948 and 1950, Francis Bacon won £1,600 at the casino in Monaco and splashed it all on renting a villa there. The Côte d’Azur, Somerset Maugham’s “sunny place for shady people”, was perfect for Bacon.
“Nobody here is at all interested in ART, which is perhaps a comfort,” he wrote to Graham Sutherland. On the other hand, gambling “is for me intimately linked with painting” — the studio and the gaming tables shared dramas of chance, accident, risk — and “I love being on this coast, with this light, one always seems to be on the edge of the real mystery”. He kept revisiting the principality for the rest of his life.
Francis Bacon, Monaco and French Culture, the summer exhibition at Monte Carlo’s Grimaldi Forum, is pure pleasure: visual, emotional, intellectual. In this glassy seafront gallery, Bacon’s art of sensation and excess is staged in an extravagant mise-en-scène of purple velvet curtains, red carpets and, at the centre, an enormous black room with light filtering through blinds, reminiscent of the shuttering device in the dark early canvases.
In this cavernous installation, you feel dizzyingly as if you are walking into an airless 1940s Bacon painting. Ghostly striated renderings from 1949 here include “Figure Crouching”, an abject form in a space frame leaking a greenish shadow, never shown before; a little-known snarling “Head”, compressed by tight collar and tie and confined in a cage; and the famous “Head VI”, a screaming Pope with phallic gold tassel mockingly swinging above his nose — Bacon’s first composition to converge imagery from Velázquez’s “Portrait of Pope Innocent X” with a still of the howling nurse from Sergei Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin.
“It is thrilling to paint from a picture which really excites you,” Bacon told Sutherland. It was in 1949 that, at 40, he really found his subject of a figure isolated in a room or constrained abstract space. “I do absolutely understand what Giacometti meant when he said ‘why ever change the subject?’” he said. “Because you could go for the whole of your life painting the same subject.”
Nevertheless, variety early on, and the references to Monaco and to French painting as explored here, are revelatory. The unstable forms against a Mediterranean blue ground in “Figure with a Monkey” (1951), where both the chimpanzee and the human spectator, manacled in white collar and cuffs, seem imprisoned by a chain fence separating them, was inspired by endocrinologist Serge Voronoff’s experiments with monkeys at the Chateau Grimaldi. “Dog” (1952) swirls menacingly within a giant roulette wheel set on Monaco’s coastal road with a single palm tree; an azure line denotes the Mediterranean.
That line reappears in “Fragment of a Crucifixion” (1950): two bloodied falling forms, sourced from a photograph of a barn owl carrying its prey, are placed on a canvas left half-unpainted. On this raw surface, small abbreviated walking figures recall the calligraphic taches of Henri Michaux — a pen and ink sketch similar to one Bacon owned is on display — and cars purr through the heat: death amid banal, quotidian reality.
Emerging from the black box of these early works, you enter a brilliant display of the deformed 1960s-80s portraits on shrill coloured grounds: bright yellow for three distorted heads of Henrietta Moraes, shocking pink overwhelming a curled up John Edwards.
The highlights are the paintings composed for Bacon’s 1971 retrospective at the Grand Palais (“Paris is the supreme test”) including “Lying Figure in a Mirror”, an androgynous twisted form evoking Michelangelo’s “Leda and the Swan”, and the gender-bending lilac “Triptych — Studies of the Human Body”, where Bacon contorts and isolates figures derived from a Picasso nude, the Belvedere Torso — the absent head concealed by a black umbrella, another shadow of death — and Caravaggio’s “Narcissus”.
“Portrait of a Man Walking Down the Steps” (1972), unseen for 40 years, depicts Bacon’s lover George Dyer, tentatively holding a blackened window frame as blood drips beneath him on a staircase resembling that of the Hotel des Saint-Pères, where Dyer committed suicide on the eve of the retrospective.
It is among many later rarities: “Study for a Self-Portrait” (1980) in a pale, diffused blue reminiscent of Degas’ pastels (“there, this is my Impressionist period”), comes here from a private collection for the first time; “Study of a Bull” (1991), a monochrome of a magisterial, threatened beast receding through a white mirror, on a canvas sprinkled with aerosol paint and dust, is Bacon’s last painting and has never been exhibited before.
Such trophies keep the show startling until the end. Although not all have direct French connections, the École de Paris context, with Giacometti, Soutine and Picasso, favoured by Bacon for “un sens très fort de la tragedie” also on display, resoundingly positions Bacon as the last great European modernist.
Benefiting from years of research unearthing paintings across four continents, Monaco’s exhibition is curated by Martin Harrison, whose definitive five-volume catalogue raisonné (Heni Publishing £1,000) appeared last month. The most significant work of 20th-century art history this decade, it is also lively, engaging and, in a defiantly biographical approach, illuminates works with gossip and anecdote, as well as with iconographic and literary reference.
It features 100 previously unpublished and unseen paintings, ranging from “Landscape with Pope/Dictator” (1946), in which Bacon sets an early version of his recurring motif against a classical colonnade and decorative purple flowers, to “Self-portrait with Injured Eye” (1972), painted after Bacon “suffered many beatings, which as a masochist he may not have found entirely uncongenial … the injured eye … stands as an autobiographical symbol”.
There are fewer homosexual couplings (11) than one imagined, more female nudes (18), and an unexpected menagerie of animals alive, dead and ornamental. Bulls, gorillas and dogs predominate, plus a camel with a thrown rider in “Unseated Picador”; “Chicken”, modelled from a Conran cookbook illustration but recalling Soutine in blood-smudged pathos, on display in Monaco; an idiosyncratic ceramic cat, worked up from a photo of a London cat’s-meat seller, in a malevolent, unique double portrait of Dyer and Lucian Freud.
“Flesh and meat are life,” Bacon said in his final interview. And “I’m like an albatross: I take in thousands of images like fish, then I spit them out on the canvas.” Harrison, in book and exhibition alike, eloquently enhances our understanding of the process, by which Bacon sustained 20th-century figuration with paintings “that can carry over from the sensation to our nervous system”, and continue to disturb and astonish.
Grimaldi Forum, Monaco, to September 4.
Who Stole These Francis Bacon Masterpieces?
The whereabouts of five Francis Bacon paintings, stolen from his former partner’s home in Madrid, remain a mystery.
Lizzie Crocker | The Daily Beast | 17 July 2016
Last July, five Francis Bacon paintings were stolen from a Spanish banker’s home in central Madrid. Thieves disabled the alarm system before slipping into a fourth floor loft belonging to 59-year-old José Capelo, who was in London at the time. They escaped with roughly $28 million-worth of portraits and landscapes by the late British artist, bequeathed to Capelo when Bacon died.
Neither the doorman nor Capelo’s neighbors noticed anything suspicious the day of the robbery. It was the kind of spotless, silent job romanticized in art heist movies like The Thomas Crown Affair.
Seven months passed before detectives uncovered any substantial information about the robbery. In February, British private investigators passed on an anonymous email with photos of one of the paintings.
When forensic investigators tracked down the camera used to photograph the paintings, they had found a suspect. In late May, Spanish police released a statement confirming that seven people had been arrested in connection with the heist. None of the suspects were named. And none of the paintings were recovered—or even publicly identified.
The case seems to have baffled both local police and international investigators. But that’s because every element of the story is baffling.
How did an aging Spanish banker—not an art collector, nor a fixture in the art world—come to possess five paintings by Francis Bacon, whose Three Studies of Lucian Freud set a $142,405,000 world record at auction in 2013? How did such a sophisticated robbery unravel with such an unsophisticated email, easily traced back to a bumbling crew of thieves?
José Capelo met Francis Bacon in the 1980s at a London party hosted by Sir Frederick Ashton, a choreographer for The Royal Ballet. The two were introduced by Barry Joule, a close friend of Bacon, who was 78 at the time and took a shine to the handsome, 35-year-old Spanish financier.
Capelo was temperamentally different from the other men Bacon had loved—all “brutes,” as he often described them to his longtime friend and biographer, Michael Peppiatt.
In his dishy memoir, Peppiatt recalls the artist happily relaying that Capelo was a refined man: “The marvelous thing is that I usually only find brutes and with José, who speaks every known language, I can talk about all sorts of things.” What luck, then, that Capelo was also “terribly well hung, almost too well hung,” Bacon gushed.
“He was physically infatuated with him,” said Peppiatt, speaking to The Daily Beast from his home in Paris. “And Capelo was fascinated by Bacon's brilliance and aura, but there was a huge age gap between them.”
Peppiatt frequently had lunches with Capelo and Bacon in London at the height of their love affair. He describes feeling like a chaperone on one such occasion, writing in his memoir that he tried to “extricate myself from this tryst, but neither man will accept my bowing out, although that does not stop them from becoming totally absorbed in a lengthy, delicate billing and cooing.”
He’d never seen Bacon fawn over a man as he did over Capelo.
“All the acid that was so present before was suddenly gone from his system,” said Peppiatt. “Being in love [with José] probably wasn't good for his painting. It calmed and tamed him and made him curiously benevolent. He'd always had a benevolent streak, but the characteristic harshness was pacified.”
But Bacon’s advancing age and poor health (he was asthmatic) ultimately deterred Capelo.
“I suppose the whole thing was rather tragic,” Peppiatt said of their romance.
In April 1992, Bacon set off to Madrid in hopes of rekindling things with Capelo, despite his deteriorating health and against his doctor’s orders. Four days after arriving, he was rushed by ambulance to the Clínica Ruber, a medical facility specializing in respiratory dysfunction.
He spent six days in intensive care before suffering a fatal heart attack. No one came to visit him, including Capelo, according to one of the nuns who looked after him. She told Peppiatt that Bacon expressed no desire to see anyone.
Capelo was even less forthcoming.
“There was no way of getting in touch with him,” Peppiatt said, “and I know that even if I had reached him there would have been a blank wall. José is very reluctant to talk about the relationship.”
Indeed, he denied most everything that was said about him and Bacon in a taped conversation between the artist and Barry Joule, in which Bacon said he bequeathed $4 million to Capelo in his will (Joule leaked their chat to the London Sunday Times in 2014, claiming Bacon gave him permission to publicize the tapes after his death).
In 2013, a 1987 painting titled “Portrait of José Capelo” went up for sale at a blue-chip Swiss gallery. Capelo also posed for a 1991 triptych that is housed in New York’s Museum of Modern Art, though Bacon told Joule that Capelo asked him to paint over his face.
Speaking to the Times, Capelo insisted that these conversations were “full of inaccuracies and full of things that are not true.”
He insisted that he “has never had any inclination to profit from that,” referring to his relationship with Bacon. “Why should I do it now? I don’t want to be a part of that.”
As for Joule’s claims, Capelo declined to comment beyond stating: “I don’t have that much respect for his opinion and his approach and his views...I think I have a right to my privacy and I want to keep it that way.”
Two years after Bacon died in Madrid, Capelo bought the apartment that was looted last July, according to El Pais.
Much has been written about the self-destructive sadists and thugs Bacon was drawn to —namely, Peter Lacy and George Dyer, both of whom committed suicide. They were brooding, brutish muses who manifested in the raw, “grotesque” imagery that characterized Bacon’s work.
Yet we know little about the artist’s last serious lover. Had Bacon met with Capelo in Madrid before he was rushed to the clinic? Why did Capelo not visit him at his death bed? Was he simply respecting Bacon’s wishes, as the nuns who took care of him suggested? (Capelo could not be reached for comment for this article.)
In the wake of the robbery, their relationship is perhaps more shrouded in mystery than ever. Capelo himself has become a source of intrigue.
It’s tempting to read into his strident declarations about not wishing to “profit” from their relationship. Was this a subtle dig at Bacon’s former lover John Edwards, who was in charge of the late artist’s estate after Bacon died (Edwards himself died in 2003)? Or a genuine sentiment from a pathologically private man?
The National Police in Spain could not be reached for comment on the ongoing investigation. Nor did the Bacon estate return repeated requests for comment about the five stolen paintings.
Their collective worth may seem insignificant compared to what Bacon’s other works have fetched at auction. But most of us care less about the numbers than the untold stories behind these paintings. And if Capelo has any say in the matter, those stories likely won’t be exposed any time soon.
Francis Bacon at The Grimaldi Forum Forces a Complete Reappraisal of his Work
By DUNCAN BALLANTYNE-WAY | SENIOR EDITOR | FINE ART MULTIPLE | EXHIBITION | JULY 2016
Francis Bacon in Vaux-Le-Vicomte, December, 1977. © Eddy Batache
Exactly as the title suggests Francis Bacon: Monaco and French Culture the exhibition at The Grimaldi Forum focuses on the extraordinary influence of French culture on Bacon's practice. The artist was immediately taken by France after he first visited Paris at the end of the 1920s, and so began a long love affair with the country, which culminated in what he considered to be his greatest achievement—his retrospective at the Grand Palais in 1971. An exhibition only once before bestowed on a living artist (Picasso), and an honor he cherished despite being awarded two Tate retrospectives in 1962 and 1985.
The exhibition is curated by Martin Harrison, the author of the recently published Francis Bacon Catalogue Raisonné, 2016. The curator’s ten-year research is incredibly in depth and he masterfully brings to the fore Bacon’s influences and sheds new light on the artist’s oeuvre—who would have thought, for instance, that Bacon was so moved by works by Van Gogh that he painted portraits of him in his signature style in 1957?
Harrison brings together famous triptychs as well as less renowned works, which are displayed thematically, highlighting the relationship between his work and France and Monaco. More than 66 paintings by the artist have been collected for the exhibition as well as works by Picasso, Alberto Giacometti, Auguste Rodin, and Chaim Soutine, which have all been cross-referenced with Bacon’s paintings. Many of the works by Bacon have never been exhibited before, including one of his last ever paintings, For Study of a Bull, 1991.
All in all this is a thrilling new take on the artist who has always been linked with the decadent streets and pubs of Soho, London. But perhaps this should not come as such a shock as the only Francis Bacon Foundation in the world is actually established in Monaco. It has often been remarked that one of Monaco and Monte Carlo’s biggest attractions for Bacon were the casinos. On his gambling obsession Bacon once remarked in an interview in 1962 that he would often visit them “at 10 in the morning and needn’t come out till about four the following morning.”
More than anything the exhibition sheds light on Bacon before 1960, a period that “we know almost nothing about”, according to Martin Harrison. “But when you put the evidence together, you’re forced to the conclusion that Francis Bacon, as we understand him today, was formed in Monaco.”
The Exhibition Francis Bacon: Monaco and French Culture runs from the 2nd of July through to the 4th of September 2016.
Quella lacrima di Francis Bacon che ci parla delle vittime in Francia
Giuseppe Frangi | Bergamo Post | 16 luglio 2016
Quella lacrima di Francis Bacon che ci parla delle vittime in Francia
Un ritratto di donna. Un ritratto di un’amica. Il volto, come accade in tutti i ritratti dipinti da Francis Bacon, è un volto intercettato in un istante di tensione, di travolgente emozione. In questo ritratto colpisce però un occhio che sembra lì lì per precipitare in un pianto, e un vistoso tocco di pittura bianca sulla guancia che sembra proprio una lacrima solidificata.
Siamo a Montecarlo. 25 km più in là una città, Nizza, piange i suoi morti del 14 luglio. E vedendo la straordinaria mostra di Francis Bacon organizzata al Forum Grimaldi è inevitabile fermarsi davanti a questo ritratto di Isabel Rawsthorne per capire che attraverso capolavori come questi un grande artista dimostra di essere sempre dentro la vita. Anche se l’opera risale a 50 anni fa.
La mostra di Bacon a Montecarlo è la mostra più bella e più importante dell’estate. Una di quelle mostre che da sole valgono il viaggio. Le ragioni sono molteplici.
Francis Bacon è l’artista più importante del secondo Novecento. Un artista potente e drammatico che a dispetto della violenza della sua pittura ha conosciuto una crescita iperbolica dei valori di mercato: un suo Trittico due anni fa è stato venduto a 146 milioni di dollari, quadro più caro mai venduto ad un’asta, spazzando il precedente record di una delle versioni dell’Urlo di Munch.
Francis Bacon è l’artista più importante del secondo Novecento. Un artista potente e drammatico che a dispetto della violenza della sua pittura ha conosciuto una crescita iperbolica dei valori di mercato: un suo Trittico due anni fa è stato venduto a 146 milioni di dollari, quadro più caro mai venduto ad un’asta, spazzando il precedente record di una delle versioni dell’Urlo di Munch.
A Montecarlo di questi problemi non ne hanno, evidentemente. E a Montecarlo ha sede la Fondazione messa in piedi dall’erede di Bacon che ha appena pubblicato il catalogo ragionato del grande artista inglese: cinque volumi venduti al prezzo di 1.400 euro
Montecarlo perciò era il luogo giusto per riuscire a stanare quei capolavori che se stanno chiusi nelle collezioni private di tutto il mondo. L’occasione della pubblicazione del Catalogo ragionato è stata poi l’occasione giusta per organizzare questa mostra mai vista. Il risultato è sotto gli occhi di chi varca il Forum Grimaldi, grande struttura espositiva affacciata sul mare nobile del Principato. Sono circa 80 opere, tutte di grandi dimensioni, quasi tutte mai viste, in quanto le opere arrivate dai musei sono la minima parte. La mostra come filo conduttore tiene quello del rapporto tra Bacon e la Francia, in quanto l’artista aveva avuto un feeling molto particolare con Parigi e con Monaco dove aveva vissuto tre anni, all’inizio della sua storia di pittore tra 1946 e 1949. Proprio a Parigi nel 1971 era stata organizzata una sua grande mostra al Grand Palais che aveva consacrato la grandezza di Bacon. Una mostra epocale, di cui a Montecarlo è stata ricostruita anche una sala.
Montecarlo perciò era il luogo giusto per riuscire a stanare quei capolavori che se stanno chiusi nelle collezioni private di tutto il mondo. L’occasione della pubblicazione del Catalogo ragionato è stata poi l’occasione giusta per organizzare questa mostra mai vista. Il risultato è sotto gli occhi di chi varca il Forum Grimaldi, grande struttura espositiva affacciata sul mare nobile del Principato. Sono circa 80 opere, tutte di grandi dimensioni, quasi tutte mai viste, in quanto le opere arrivate dai musei sono la minima parte. La mostra come filo conduttore tiene quello del rapporto tra Bacon e la Francia, in quanto l’artista aveva avuto un feeling molto particolare con Parigi e con Monaco dove aveva vissuto tre anni, all’inizio della sua storia di pittore tra 1946 e 1949. Proprio a Parigi nel 1971 era stata organizzata una sua grande mostra al Grand Palais che aveva consacrato la grandezza di Bacon. Una mostra epocale, di cui a Montecarlo è stata ricostruita anche una sala.
Inside the heart of
darkness: For fans of Francis Bacon Tate Liverpool's exhibition is a worthwhile
Inside the heart of darkness: For fans of Francis Bacon Tate Liverpool's exhibition is a worthwhile visit
By ANNA MCNAY | DAILY MAIL | 16 July 2016
Photograph of Bacon (c 1962)
Throughout his career, Francis Bacon vehemently denied ever doing preparatory work for his paintings. ‘I do not make sketches nor drawings,’ he said. ‘I just proceed.’ But in Invisible Rooms, Tate Liverpool’s stunning exhibition of the painter’s work, there is an extensive section of sketches, many discovered strewn on the floors and work surfaces of his South Kensington studio after his death in 1992.
The sketches here – of boxers, wrestlers and crouching, caged figures – sit alongside lists of ideas. In almost illegible writing, inside the covers of books, he scrawled hasty reminders to himself of what he might want to paint: ‘portrait of Peter as opposite’, ‘figure going through door as in Eichmann photo’, ‘butcher shop hanging meat’. It could almost be a shopping list, yet these ingredients are the recipe for some of the greatest 20th-century British figurative paintings we know.
A particular favourite source material appears to be studies of the human figure in motion from the 19th-century photographer Eadweard Muybridge. Images of his Soho circle in the Sixties, taken by photographer John Deakin, are also on display, alongside sketches Bacon did based on them.
In the case of Bacon’s fellow artist and friend Isabel Rawsthorne, Bacon took a photograph of her and turned it into a disturbing full-size painting, with Rawsthorne standing caged in a circular arena, face glowering and distorted. As an artwork and composition, this piece is captivating; as a portrait, the distortion takes us beyond physical appearances to a psychological interpretation.
This exhibition shows just how much Bacon manipulated his source material, condensing the content, intensifying the figures and creating for them a new – and unsettling – stage or arena. And it is the structures that Bacon created on the canvas that is this show’s common theme. These framing devices are often in the form of cages and curtains, and they draw attention to the painted figure and our encounter with it.
Asked by the critic and curator David Sylvester about this technique of creating frames within frames, Bacon explained that he simply wanted to concentrate the image down. Much has been made, however, of the similarity between the cage in Study For A Portrait from 1949 and photographs from the Nuremberg trials, showing Nazi war criminals boxed behind glass.
Bacon was undeniably influenced by these events, and much of his work speaks of the violence and cruelty of mankind. ‘The feelings of desperation and unhappiness are more useful to an artist than the feeling of contentment because desperation and unhappiness stretch your whole sensibility,’ he said.
He also believed that humans were simply animals, subject to carnal desires, urges and fears, and his caging might therefore be seen as a direct reference to this bestial nature. Certainly it is captured in his gaping mouths, from which silent screams rage, and his distorted, grotesque bodies, sometimes carcasses, that writhe within these confines.
Invisible Rooms contains many
well-known Bacon works. There are his terrifying paintings based on Velázquez’s
Portrait Of Pope Innocent X, in which the subject sits, as if strapped into an
electric chair, mouth wide open, so that his scream is almost audible. And his
works relating to the Crucifixion, including Tate’s own ghoulish triptych,
Three Studies For Figures At The Base Of A Crucifixion, from 1944, with its
maimed, mutilated and bandaged figures, drained of colour and set against a
bloody red background, are also included here.
There are pieces, too, from his Man In Blue series from 1954, thought to portray Bacon’s lover, Peter Lacy, in which a ghostly white presence drowns in a dark blue lake, imprisoned within bars, capturing the disembodiment, isolation and hopelessness of homosexuals in an era when same-sex relations were still illegal.
For fans of Bacon, this is a worthy exposition. While the premise of framing techniques might seem to be just a spurious excuse to bring together another mini-retrospective of an over-exposed painter, this exhibition does shed some light on the techniques of this nevertheless most mysterious and confounding of artists.
Tickets also permit entry to Tate
Liverpool’s exhibition of work by Austrian painter Maria Lassnig.
Tickets also permit entry to Tate Liverpool’s exhibition of work by Austrian painter Maria Lassnig.
The Visitors' Book: In
Francis Bacon's Shadow review – boozing and mischief
The Visitors' Book: In Francis Bacon's Shadow review – boozing and mischief
Jon Lys Turner’s biography
of Bacon’s closest friends, Richard Chopping and Denis Wirth-Miller, offers an
entertaining as well as painful study in hero-worship
Jon Lys Turner’s biography of Bacon’s closest friends, Richard Chopping and Denis Wirth-Miller, offers an entertaining as well as painful study in hero-worship
Michael Peppiatt | The Guardian | Friday 8 July, 2016
Francis Bacon and Dicky Chopping
If you spent any time going around with Francs Bacon, you were bound to come across Dicky Chopping and Denis Wirth-Miller. Bacon introduced them to me as early as 1963 as “the oldest queer couple in the land”, although they would go on living together in their quayside house in Wivenhoe, Essex, for more than another 40 years. A briefly successful book-illustrator and a frustrated minor painter respectively, Dicky and Denis were also Francis’s closest friends, partly because they managed to survive so many spectacularly drunken ups and downs in their relationship à trois.
From a young age, when I first witnessed their antics, I came to think of them fondly enough as errant uncles. Dicky was the more restrained of the two, being naturally less confrontational even when drunk. But Denis (known inevitably as “Denis the Menace”) was never content until he had exasperated everyone within earshot by shouting out one provocatively camp remark after another as he teetered from bar to restaurant, apparently feeling duty-bound to shock anyone bourgeois enough to be still shockable.
Tall and elegant, Dicky tended to withdraw into himself as the stockier Denis plunged manically into this act, his gestures growing ever wilder and his purplish face suffused with the gallons of wine he had put away. “He had a cock as hard as a steel hawser,” Denis would announce at random. “He was so in love with me that he wanted to lick caviar off the back of my throat,” he shouted. And any attempt to cut off his embarrassing tirades merely reassured him that his brilliance and originality were at last being acknowledged.
While Dicky looked ever more disapproving, Francis would slyly egg Denis on with acid little comments such as, “I don’t know who she thinks she’s going to impress with that nonsense” or, “the trouble is, Denis, you’re as coarse as those ghastly little paintings you do”. But then Francis would resent no longer being the centre of attention and lay viciously into him. Denis seemed to revel at first in this onslaught, but Francis was his idol, his central and absolute article of faith, and he grew so unnerved by these attacks that he would eventually kick over any chairs within reach and disappear melodramatically into the night.
I came to accept this kind of behaviour as the norm on nights out with Francis, who once defined friendship as “two people continuously pulling each other to pieces”. At times, Denis and Francis tore into each other with such wounding malice, going for the jugular with every remark, that I imagined they would never see each other again. But they soon returned to the fray as if they couldn’t live without the self-destructive passion of their fights.
Like other Bacon nuts, I imagine, I first raced through Jon Lys Turner’s book picking out all the choice Bacon bits, before reading the book properly as a whole. Right away I was fascinated, for instance, to find the description of an early punch-up between Denis and the art critic, David Sylvester, because I had witnessed an exact repeat, with Denis ending up with his nose broken once again, in the Colony Room club. Since he was their confidant and inherited Dicky and Denis’s personal archives, Lys Turner provides several nuggets of this kind, in particular extracts from the numerous letters that Francis sent to Denis and a variety of hitherto unseen photographs (although I have to say the photos published here of Francis’s boyfriend, George Dyer, don’t look much like the Dyer I knew).
What you find when you do read the book from cover to cover is very much what is announced in the subtitle. Despite their (sometimes enduring, often fleeting) contacts with other movers and shakers – from Frances Partridge and Randolph Churchill to Ian Fleming and John Gielgud – Dicky and Denis’s lives were indeed lived in Francis’s shadow, and that seething darkness seems to be where they themselves came most into their own, warts, disastrous boozing, camp mischief and all.
Much of what happened to Dicky and Denis outside Francis’s sphere of influence is mildly interesting as an adjunct to the main theme, illuminating minor episodes here and there of recent British cultural history. (Lys Turner’s title comes from the couple’s visitors’ book at their Essex townhouse.) But these accounts seem distinctly peripheral. Dicky’s painstaking illustrations for the James Bond novels, the couple’s fraught relationships with other gay men or their shared dislike of Lucian Freud are certainly not to be discounted, but they and the numerous other extraneous anecdotes would never amount to a book by themselves.
The central story here, the central tragedy one might say, is Denis’s obsession with Francis. While Dicky was too well balanced a character ever to fall wholly under Francis’s sway, Denis craved it. Francis, with his iron constitution, aristocratic self-belief and unpredictable genius for being both of and beyond his times, had a creative power and aura that Denis could only dream of. At the same time as living in Francis’s shadow, and to some extent because of that, Denis achieved a certain distinction as a painter of technically adept estuary landscapes, wind-flattened sedge and Muybridge-inspired dogs in headlong flight. But his images patently lack conviction, no doubt because (as Lys Turner emphasises) Denis himself chronically lacked self-confidence. He also worked on certain of Francis’s paintings with him, helping him to achieve more credible blades of grass or well-delineated feet, and thereby bolstering the illusion that he too was at the heart of creation.
But when, as Lys Turner recounts, Francis went careening round what was for Denis a crucial exhibition of his work, mocking every one of his pictures in sight, the poor man gave in completely to his self-doubt and decided there was no point in continuing to paint. Thenceforth, he would devote himself instead to drinking and outrageousness. As a direct consequence, in his declining, increasingly bitter and destitute years, Denis never recovered the sense of himself that he had painfully gained as an artist. I now understand much better why, when I called him to talk about Francis for the biography I was writing, he said: “I don’t want to talk about him ever again. He was an absolutely horrible man.” By then, Denis had found out that if anyone still bought his pictures, it was to scrape off the surface layer in the hope of finding a hidden work by Francis beneath. As Lys Turner says at the end of this moving and ultimately saddening account, Francis had in part created Denis, and in so doing he also destroyed him.
FRANCIS BACON AT THE GRIMALDI FORUM IN MONACO
ART IS ALIVE | SINCE 2007 | 14 JULY 2016
Francis Bacon in Monte-Carlo in November 1981. © Eddy Batache
“Bacon’s single, most famous art-historical reference is probably that to Velàzquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X. But in fact his paintings were more directly inspired by French artists, or artists living in France – Degas, Manet, Toulouse-Lautrec, Van Gogh, Gauguin, Picasso, Giacometti. Signs of this are visible across his oeuvre.” Martin Harrison, curator and editor of the Francis Bacon Catalogue Raisonné on the the most visible signs of French culture in Bacon’s work.
Francis Bacon, Monaco and French Culture presented at the Grimaldi Forum Monaco until 4 September 2016 explores the influence of French art and culture on the artist’s oeuvre. Based on an original idea by Martin Harrison, curator of the exhibition, the scenography by the Grimaldi Forum Design Office references the work of set designers Adolphe Appia and Edward Gordon Craig.
Major paintings from international collections, including Tate Britain and Centre Pompidou, are thematically displayed – The Human Body, The Portraits, Influences etc. – to demonstrate Bacon’s love-relationship with France and Monaco. The exhibition brings together sixty-six paintings by Bacon himself alongside works by leading artists who inspired him, including Picasso, Giacometti, and Léger.
Major loans from public collections around the world include Head VI (1949) from the Arts Council England, the extraordinary Fragment of a Crucifixion (1950, Van Abbemuseum, Eindhoven), and Pope I (1951, Aberdeen Art Gallery). Private collections were also asked for works, including the triptych, Studies of the Human Body (1970), Turning Figure (1962), and Portrait of a Man Walking Down Steps (1972), Bacon’s most poignant tribute to George Dyer, painted shortly after his death. Other highlights include two pictures from Bacon’s Van Gogh series. The works are on show in a corridor leading from “the Dark Cave” section of the show to a room devoted to the artist’s representation of the human body.
The exhibition includes – for the first time – Francis Bacon’s first work, Watercolour (1929, Francis Bacon MB Art Foundation) and Bacon’s last painting, completed in 1991, the never before-exhibited Study of a Bull (1991, Private Collection). Tate dedicated two retrospectives to the artist during his lifetime, in 1962 and 1985, but Francis Bacon regarded the retrospective at the Grand Palais in 1971 as the most significant of his career. This blue-chip exhibition certainly rivals with these retrospectives.
From Soho to sunshine: the
Francis Bacon you never knew
From Soho to sunshine: the Francis Bacon you never knew
We know him as the doyen of
dingy 1960s Soho. But a major
exhibition in Monaco reveals the British painter in a more Mediterranean light,
showing how he drew inspiration from the French Riviera. The editor of RA
Magazine takes a visit.
We know him as the doyen of dingy
1960s Soho. But a major exhibition in Monaco reveals the British painter in a more Mediterranean light, showing how he drew inspiration from the French Riviera. The editor of RA Magazine takes a visit.
BT SAM PHILLIPS | RA MAGAZINE | 13 JULY 2016
Francis Bacon in Monaco, 1981
When I used to think of Francis Bacon, I always imagined gloomy London interiors, the painter in his murky, messy Reece Mews studio, or propping up the bar in the smoke-filled Colony Room in Soho
But a significant show at Monaco’s Grimaldi Forum has drawn back the curtains on this dinge, shedding sunlight on Bacon and arguing for an alternative idea of the man: Francis the Francophile, who sojourned at every opportunity to Paris, Monaco and the French Riviera, absorbing ideas aplenty from French painting while he was at it
The argument pivots on a period in the late 1940s when Bacon moved to Monaco, during which he began a significant series of paintings of heads, including Head VI (1949). This is the earliest surviving of his “Pope” paintings – works that take Velazquez’s portrait of Pope Innocent X(c.1650) in a decidedly existential direction. The purple-robed Pope sits – as if restrained – in a rudimentary cube, his mouth open in agony, his eyes, nose and upper face eradicated by downward daubs of black. On display in one of the exhibition’s opening spaces, it has a high-octane hellishness that is rarely matched in the works that follow
Bacon loved the region’s climate – it helped his chronic asthma – but also Monaco’s famed casino. “I became obsessed by the casino and I spent whole days there,” he told David Sylvester in 1966, “and there you could go in at ten o’clock in the morning and needn’t come out until about four o’clock the following morning….” It is tempting to extend gambling as a metaphor for Bacon’s art, to speculate that he took more risks than his contemporaries because of his love for a flutter. During his time in Monaco, Bacon first began painting on the unprimed side of the canvas; the story goes that he had lost all his cash at roulette, so instead of buying a new canvas he had to recycle the back of an old one, and realised he preferred the unprimed surface.
The artist’s relationship to Monaco is an obsession of Majid Boustany, a Lebanese-born property developer, art collector and philanthropist. With the blessing of the Bacon estate, Boustany has established the Francis Bacon MB Art Foundation in a Monégasque villa. The foundation supports research, events and exhibitions about the artist, including the Grimaldi Forum show, to which it has loaned the earliest surviving Bacon, Watercolour (1929).
This Cubist interior, displayed in a section entitled Inspirations, sees the 20-year-old Bacon drawing on the work De Chirico, Léger and Picasso. The latter’s work was “profoundly unillustrative but profoundly real about figures”, in Bacon’s words; in other rooms, one sees how brilliantly Bacon learned from Picasso to create his own signature style of biomorphism, in which men’s muscles are mangled or merged
A breathtaking example is triptych Studies of the Human Body (1970), painted for Bacon’s 1971 Grand Palais retrospective. The three oils are suspended away from the wall, so that the work appears to float in space in the same way as its subjects. Such bold exhibition design is one of the show’s great strengths. The cavernous Grimaldi Forum space, often used as a conference venue, has been a help and not a hindrance in this respect, allowing the curators to design walls and lighting around the requirements of the 66 Bacons.
But as I emerged into the summer sun, a question troubled me. If Head V is one of the 20th century’s most affecting images of anxiety, how could it be made in the benign world of the French Riviera? Excluding a rare Bacon seascape, little in the show is emblematic of the coast or the atmosphere of Southern France. The show, in this way, is an argument against the direct connection of a work of art and the place it is made – perhaps it was just distance and time that Bacon needed, and Monaco allowed him both.
Francis Bacon: Monaco and French Culture, Grimaldi Forum, Monaco, 2 July–2 September; the exhibition travels to the Guggenheim Museum, Bilbao, 30 September–8 January. An accompanying book, Francis Bacon: France and Monaco, edited by Martin Harrison, is co-published by Albin Michel and The Francis Bacon MB Art Foundation, in partnership with Heni Publishing, £35.00. Francis Bacon MB Foundation, Monaco +377 93 30 30 33, open by appointment.
is changing the way we tackle art theft
How technology is changing the way we tackle art theft
JAMES RATCLIFFE | APOLLO | THE INTERNATIONAL ART MAGAZINE | 7 July 2016
Spanish police arrested seven people in connection with the theft of five Francis Bacon paintings earlier this year, after photos of the works were traced to a specific camera
The recent news from Madrid of the arrests of seven people linked to the theft of five paintings by Francis Bacon has highlighted the role that technology can play in the fight against art crime.
When the Art Loss Register was contacted by an individual wishing to search a Bacon painting against our database of stolen and missing art, we quickly matched it to one of the stolen works. We then passed the information we had received straight on to the Spanish police.
It has now been revealed that the police were able to track down the digital camera that had taken the images, thus leading to the arrest of the person who took the photos and others.
Technology is proving an increasingly useful tool in tracking down stolen paintings. At the Art Loss Register, we have seen works of art searched against our database, the pictures of which were taken on a smartphone and therefore tagged with geolocation data. Possibly not the best way to keep hidden the stolen painting in your barn.
Information such as locations, or the model of camera that took the image, undoubtedly makes the lives of those investigating art crime much easier. But the greatest advantage of digital imaging that we have observed is simply how much easier it is for people to find photos of works that have been stolen from them, and then to circulate those photos to assist in the identification of the works should they reappear later on. Gone are the days of faxing images across the world and hoping that they are still vaguely recognisable at the other end.
It is not all positive though; technology is a double-edged sword and can benefit criminals too. High quality images make it much easier to rapidly create reproductions to hang in place of stolen art, meaning that thefts such as the nine Warhols found to be missing in LA last year can go undetected for years. Similarly, technology makes reconnaissance and the recording of targets easier and opens up new routes to carry out a theft. Hacking into the accounts of those shipping art, to change the destination so that art is delivered into the thief’s hands at an empty address, is now all too possible. By the time anyone notices the error, both the thieves and the art will be long gone, having left only an impenetrable signature with the courier. The worst case scenario (still, thankfully, hypothetical) might be someone hacking into a museum’s collection management system and altering records so that a picture that is stolen no longer shows up even on the museum’s inventory.
Ultimately technology simply provides a range of forensic tools. It then takes skill to establish their relevance of as part of the process of tracking down a stolen picture.
The Spanish police made good use of technology to find and arrest individuals who could be connected with the crime. But in the end the reason they were able to do so is just the same as ever. The best leads come from a criminal’s mistakes. In this case that was the mistake of using an identifiable camera, and failing to remove identifying information from the image files. Had this been done, or had they simply used a cheap digital camera bought with cash (they rented theirs), then they would have been a lot less likely to be caught. Technology moves on, but mistakes will always be made. In the case of these Bacons the question is whether this will ever lead to the pictures themselves, which appear still to be missing.
Monaco magic is highlighted in a new exhibition
Francis Bacon's Monaco magic is highlighted in a new exhibition
Wrathall | The
Telegraph 6 July 2016
6 July 2016
Francis Bacon MB Art Foundation, Francis Bacon in his studio, London 1977
It’s not hard to see why the artist Francis Bacon should have been drawn to Monte Carlo, where he spent three years in the 1940s, and to which he returned repeatedly during the course of his life, staying in room 681 of the belle époque Hôtel Balmoral (now apartments). Long favoured by Britons seeking respite from the northern winter, its appeal to Bacon in post-war Europe was obvious. The sea air and sunny climate would keep his asthma at bay. The sparkling Côte d’Azur light would delight his eye. And there was the casino, with which he became, in his words, “obsessed” and where he would “spend whole days”.
Indeed it was gambling debts incurred in 1947 when he was living on what is now the Avenue Princesse Grace, and his consequent inability to afford new canvas, that first compelled him to recycle an existed work by painting on the raw, unprimed side, a practice he continued throughout his life. Back in London, he gambled at home with friends too on a roulette wheel now displayed in the final room of the Francis bacon MB Art Foundation in a 19th century villa at 21 Boulevard d’Italie, which opened (by appointment) to the public last year, and is one of a host of new gallery and exhibition spaces that have turned the principality into a near-ideal city-break destination for art lovers.
Francis Bacon: Monaco and French Culture at the Grimaldi Forum Monaco
The Foundation is the creation of the Monaco-based Swiss-Lebanese property developer Majid Boustany, owner, with his brother, of the Jacques Garcia-designed Metropole, the most fashionable and alluring of the principality's great grande-dame hotels. As a post-graduate student in the UK in the early 90s, he encountered Bacon’s triptych Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion, now in Tate Britain, and had a kind of epiphany. “I knew then,” he told me over dinner at the hotel (where Joël Robuchon has oversight of the kitchens), “that I would be busy with Bacon my whole life.”
He began to collect, first lithographs and photographs (Bacon’s paintings do not come cheap; witness the version of Lying Figure with a Hypodermic Syringe, which was sold at Christie’s for £20m last week), then major works, as well as furniture - Bacon began as a designer of pieces very much in the vein of Eileen Gray or Charlotte Perriand. The collection also runs to books and other memorabilia, more than 2,500 items in total that range from his easel and the Carte Orange (or season ticket) he used on the Paris metro to the artist’s first known painting, an abstract watercolour from 1929 now on show, along with the triptych he first saw at Tate, in a major exhibition, Francis Bacon: Monaco and French Culture, at the Grimaldi Frum Monaco.
If the exhibition’s focus is essentially Bacon’s connection with France and Monaco – witness a rare seascape from 1950 and the outline of a distinctive local mountain in the top-left corner of Fragment of a Crucifixion (1953) – it works equally as an introduction to the life and work of an artist generally hailed the most important British painter of the modern age.
More than 60 major works from major international museums as well as 20 private collections never before seen in public hang alongside works by artists who influenced him: Giacometti, Léger, Muybridge, Picasso, Rodin and Toulouse-Lautrec, among them. To this end there are some quite surprising juxtapositions. In a room devoted to studies of the human form, Marie Laurencin’s 1924 portrait of Madame Paul Guillaume, which Bacon would have known, hangs opposite his Study for a Portrait of John Edwards, painted 60 years later. Both are striking for their use of pink. Look at them together, and suddenly Bacon’s genius as a colourist is evident.
Francis Bacon: Monaco and French Culture at the Grimaldi Forum Monaco
The Grimaldi Forum was not designed to exhibit art, but in this instance its cavernous, windowless interior works to its advantage, not least for the sheer amount of space given over to this theatrically installed show. (The exhibition’s curator, Martin Harrison, author of the just-published Bacon catalogue raisonné, acknowledges a debt to the influence of the influential European stage designers Adolphe Appia (1862-1928) and Edward Gordon-Craig (1872-1966).) In several of the galleries the walls are hung with acres of rich velvet drapery in an appropriately papal purple. (It was in Monaco, it turns out, that Bacon painted the first of his homages to Velazquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X, a copy of which is hangs at the start of the show.) But as the show continues, more austere style prevails, with a sequence of great metal structures between and, in one instance, suspended above the galleries, commissioned to evoke the “cages” within which Bacon often enclosed his figures. There is another visual coup towards the end of the exhibition when one confronts the monumental Studies of the Human Body triptych from 1970, which appears to float free from the walls, so discreet are its fixings.
Even the lighting seems audacious. For the most part the paintings are dramatically spotlight both to focus attention and enhance the glitter of their gilt frames amid Stygian gloom. Enter the final room, however, where his final painting, Study of a Bull (1991) hangs alongside his 1987 corrida triptych, and suddenly you are out of the sombra and into the bright light of a Madrid bullring. The experience is exhilarating, the culmination of a show that is original, illuminating, immensely enjoyable and, I’d say, well worth the trip.
Francis Bacon: Monaco and
French Culture at the Grimaldi Forum Monaco until 4th September, 10am to 8pm
daily, admission €10
Francis Bacon: Monaco and French Culture at the Grimaldi Forum Monaco until 4th September, 10am to 8pm daily, admission €10
Francis Bacon's great
gambles - both in art and in the casino - on show in Monte Carlo
Francis Bacon's great gambles - both in art and in the casino - on show in Monte Carlo
The artist regarded his
losses on the roulette table as “an expense related to painting”
The artist regarded his losses on the roulette table as “an expense related to painting”
by Martin Bailey |
The Art Newspaper | 2 July 2016
by Martin Bailey
| The Art Newspaper
| 2 July 2016
Francis Bacon in Monte-Carlo, November 1981. Photo: © Eddy Batache.
A Bacon exhibition opening in Monte Carlo on Saturday 2 July reveals the close
links between the artist’s obsessive gambling and his paintings. Both depended
on chance. As Rebecca Daniels, a contributor to the Grimaldi Forum catalogue
explains, so inextricably linked were gaming and art that Bacon regarded his
losses on the roulette table as “an expense related to painting”. He once used
this as an argument for his dealer to advance more money.
Francis Bacon loved the French Riviera, but what made Monaco particularly attractive was its gambling opportunities. He moved to the independent principality in 1946 and spent most of the next five years there, returning often up until his death in 1992.
Bacon’s haunt was the Casino. He recalled: “I spent whole days there... you could go in at ten o’clock and needn’t come out until about four o’clock the following morning”. Bacon would quickly dispense any winnings on champagne and the finest food for friends. It was his symbol of living in the present.
Among the paintings in the Grimaldi Forum show is Study for a Figure
(1950), which includes a vaguely outlined circular object. This picture was
assumed to have been lost, but in 2006 it was rediscovered on the reverse of a
canvas. Lucian Freud then recalled having seen it in 1950, describing the
circular object as a roulette wheel.
Bacon even owned his own roulette wheel, with which he would play with friends back in England. This relic of the artist’s tortured life has recently gone to Monaco, when it was purchased by Majid Boustany for his Francis Bacon MB Art Foundation.
Bacon even owned his own roulette wheel, with which he would play with friends back in England.
Daniels believes that Bacon approached gambling and art with the same spirit, displaying a determination to take risks and allow chance to intervene. Bacon wrote that “the vice of gambling... is for me intimately linked with painting”. Clive Barker, a sculptor and a friend, recalled that Bacon would talk endlessly about how “chance” affected his paintings, with success or failure being likened to “the spin of a roulette wheel”.
Bacon would persevere with a painting until it either became a masterpiece or a
complete failure. When the gamble went wrong, he would simply destroy the work.
The Grimaldi Forum exhibition presents 62 of Bacon’s paintings that relate to
his visits to Monaco and France, showing his deep interest in French culture.
These essentially represent the successes, but the artist also destroyed
hundreds of pictures where his gamble had failed.
A failure of a different kind in Bacon’s early career was the idea to sell his work to the Casino. In 1946 he wrote to his friend Graham Sutherland: “I always feel with a little clever manipulation the Casino would buy our pictures”. They never did, and instead its magnificent Belle Epoque rooms are decorated with paintings of languorous females, who still today sooth the disappointments of the unlucky as they lose their chips.
Just for this summer, Bacon’s work has returned to Monaco, at the Grimaldi Forum, a modern conference and exhibition centre a few minutes’ walk from the Casino. For anyone going to see the show, do go on to the Casino for its magnificent interiors and to imbibe the theatrical atmosphere of the gaming. To see Bacon’s roulette wheel, take a guided tour of the Francis Bacon MB Foundation with its artworks and memorabilia (advance booking required).
• Francis Bacon: Monaco and French Culture, Grimaldi Forum, Monaco, 2 July-4 September.
Francis Bacon made in Monaco?
Was Francis Bacon made in Monaco?
By Mark Hudson Art Critic Daily
Telegraph 2 July 2016
By Mark Hudson|
2 July 2016
Francis Bacon in Nice, March, 1979
One evening in the late Eighties, I was walking down Brompton Road in South Kensington, when I saw a figure turning in the doorway of a late-night chemist. His face, caught in the neon glare, was pale and oddly ageless, and in the split-second that our eyes met I glimpsed an expression that was at once impassive and strangely haunted.
Francis Bacon, I thought, without breaking my stride.
Bacon, who must by then have been about 80, had lived in that area of London for decades, and was long since established as the greatest and most controversial British painter of the 20th century. Since his death in 1992, the Bacon industry has grown ever larger, leading to increasingly detailed speculation about both the meaning of his harrowing, morally ambivalent paintings, and his rackety private life in the gay clubs and seedy drinking dens of post-war London.
Yet there remain whole aspects of his life about which we know very little. Not least among them is the three-year period in the late Forties when Bacon lived in Monaco. This barely chronicled moment is the subject of a major new exhibition at the Grimaldi Forum in Monte Carlo: Francis Bacon, Monaco and French Culture.
“We know almost nothing about Bacon before 1960,” says Martin Harrison, curator of the exhibition and editor of the monumental catalogue raisonné of Bacon’s works that is being published concurrently. “But when you put the evidence together, you’re forced to the conclusion that Francis Bacon, as we understand him today, was formed in Monaco.”
Walking now through a somewhat antiseptic pedestrian precinct, just a couple of hundred yards from Monte Carlo’s famous casino, I’m struggling to imagine what might have drawn Bacon to this manicured, high-security tax haven. Gravity-defying highways course between well-appointed tower-blocks and the belle époque villas sprouting from the slopes of this Mediterranean principality. There’s the atmosphere of discretion and anonymity you’d expect of a place with the highest property prices in Europe, but there’s little in the way of street-life; the few restaurants and shops are expensive, but oddly characterless. What, beyond the casino – and Bacon was an inveterate gambler – could have attracted the great connoisseur of the more sordid aspects of metropolitan life to this strangely sterile place? Documents show that Bacon moved here from London in July 1946, setting up home in the Hôtel de Ré in an unlikely ménage à trois with his lover of the time, Eric Hall, and his nanny, Jessie Lightfoot, who had nursed him through childhood asthma and remained his closest companion until her death in 1951.
“The warm weather was good for his asthma,” says Harrison with a shrug. “He was an upper-class Englishman, and Monaco was where upper-class English people went.” He produces a letter from Bacon to his fellow artist Graham Sutherland, written shortly after his arrival here in 1946. “Bacon was 37, he’d destroyed almost everything he’d done up to that point. But here he is talking about what’s wrong with art at that time, with Picasso and all the French guys, about what we – by which he meant himself – must do in art. Up to that point he’s endlessly messed around, but here in Monaco he realised what his project was: to become the greatest artist of his time.”
Born in Dublin in 1909 to upper-class English parents, Bacon had a troubled relationship with his father, an army officer and racehorse trainer, who disapproved of his sensitive, “unmanly” second son. He may even have sexually abused him; a trauma that left Bacon, it has been speculated, with a lifelong yearning for a “cruel father” figure. Rather than going to art school or university, Bacon drifted between London, Paris and Berlin, eking out a tiny allowance from his mother with menial jobs, stints as a paid “gentleman’s companion” and bouts of shoplifting with Lightfoot.
In the late Twenties, he set himself up as a modernist interior designer, a role in which he had some success (despite his later claims to the contrary). Designing rugs led him to painting, and by the time of his move to Monaco he was established as an enfant terrible on London’s tiny avant-garde art scene. Indeed, he’d already created two of his defining works: the sinister Painting (1946), now in New York’s Museum of Modern Art, in which an ominous demagogic figure stands framed by two huge sides of meat, and Tate’s emblematic Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion, with its howling mutant faces. Doesn’t that rather undermine the idea of “Francis Bacon” having been formed in Monaco?
“He knew he could do better than both those paintings. The MoMA Painting is interesting, but a bit of a mess,” says Harrison who, having spent 10 years on the catalogue raisonné, should know. “Three Figures is still heavily influenced by Picasso, and he arrived in Monaco with the intention of transcending that.”
The isolated figures and tortured surfaces of Bacon’s paintings have come to be seen as emblematic of the existential angst of post-war Europe, embodying the bleak residue left by the revelations of the Holocaust and the atom bomb. So it’s disconcerting to find him in the immediate aftermath of war not in chilly, bomb-ravaged austerity London, but in the relatively frivolous atmosphere of the Côte d’Azur. Monaco then must have been very different from what it is today: greener, less built-up, with much of its original elegance still intact – with more of a real sense, perhaps, of place. Bacon’s cultural and artistic tastes were resolutely Francophile; he was dismissive of almost all British art. But why did he move to Monaco, rather than the nearby and much livelier Nice, for example?
“He loved gambling and the casino in Monte Carlo is the most famous in the world,” says Harrison. “The Train Bleu, the sleeper from Paris, pulled in right beside the casino, and Bacon found trains, particularly night trains, sexy: you never knew who you would meet.”
Bacon recalled in an interview in 1962 that he became obsessed with Monte Carlo’s casino and spent whole days there at a time. “You could go in at 10 in the morning and needn’t come out till about four the following morning.”
Gambling appealed to his lifelong fascination with chance, in life and art, his sense of the cruel arbitrariness of existence. “He loved the exhilaration of roulette, staking everything on the spin of a wheel,” says Michael Peppiatt, who chronicled his 30-year friendship with the artist in the excellent memoir Francis Bacon in Your Blood. “He enjoyed it even when he lost. But he adored winning, of course, making an enormous amount of money through something so frivolous, then spending it all on champagne, taking people out to dinner and giving enormous tips.”
After one particularly big win, Bacon went home with a handsome stranger, the owner, he said, of a yacht moored in the marina. After his departure, the Monaco police descended on Bacon’s apartment in search of the man, who was wanted all along the Riviera. “Francis enjoyed that,” says Peppiatt. “Monaco was a place apart, and it attracted louche people who he found intriguing: con men, doctors who’d perform not quite legal operations, the old women who queued to get into the casino every morning.”
But Bacon can’t have spent four years solely on gambling. “He was very disciplined,” says Peppiatt. “He needed the regularity of getting up early and painting every morning before lunch. And that came easiest to him in London. He always said he found it difficult to paint in strong light, which is why he did very little painting in Tangier, which he also visited very frequently.” Peppiatt, indeed, is sceptical that Bacon did much significant painting in Monaco, or that he spent years there at a time. The fact that Bacon maintained a London residence throughout this period, but lived at five different Monaco addresses, might seem to corroborate that view. The expense of such a lifestyle would have been considerable even without losses at the gambling tables, though Bacon was bankrolled, to a degree at least, by his lover Hall. An art collector and a director of the Peter Jones department store, Hall remains a shadowy figure, though like many of Bacon’s early patron-lovers – “sugar daddies,” Harrison calls them – he was married with children.
For Bacon, gambling was a means of self-exploration to be pursued no less obsessively than painting. In his mind the two activities were so closely entwined that losses at the roulette table were seen as collateral damage to success at the easel. Writing to a London dealer in 1947, having sustained heavy losses at the Monte Carlo Casino, he requested the then hefty price of £750 for a triptych on the grounds that this was “not one quarter of what (the paintings) have cost me with gambling etc”.
In Monaco, Bacon, who in Peppiatt’s words “saw himself as a person apart”, found a place apart, where he could immerse himself in his twin preoccupations, in light that gave him, as he wrote to his friend Sir Colin Anderson, the sense “of being on the edge of the real mystery”, yet where equally, as he told Graham Sutherland, “nobody is at all interested in ART, which is perhaps a comfort”. The private side of Bacon’s personality, which wouldn’t allow anyone to see him working, found in the principality a sense of energising detachment, an atmosphere which, as he told the critic David Sylvester years later, was “very good for pictures falling ready-made into the mind”.
The few surviving Monaco works illustrated in the catalogue raisonné are unresolved, though he is understood to have destroyed many others. Yet the stamp of a Nice framer on the back of the ferocious and unnerving Head II reveals that important work was done here. One of two paintings showing a chimpanzee’s bared teeth merging with a man’s head, it is so thickly impasted it was described by Bacon as “like rhino hide”. The companion work Head I contains the rudiments of an ornate chair or throne, suggesting it may have started out as one of the earliest of the reworkings of Velázquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X that are among Bacon’s greatest works.
Bacon had painted the first of his “Popes” (Landscape with Pope/Dictator) shortly after his arrival in Monaco, a work reproduced for the first time in the catalogue raisonné. If it barely hints at the extraordinary things Bacon was to do with this image over the following decades, it nevertheless embodies the conflicts between spontaneity and order, brutality and impassivity, that were at the root of Bacon’s art and personality. “He was debonair and sophisticated,” says Peppiatt. “He could be very charming, extremely generous and great fun to be with. But there was also a treacherous and destructive side to his personality, something diabolical. He pushed himself to the limits, and he pushed others to the limits too. You only have to look at the various suicides around him.”
These included his lover George Dyer, who killed himself in 1971, and Peter Lacy, considered the great love of Bacon’s life – his ultimate “cruel father” figure – who drank himself to death. If the latter wasn’t a suicide as such, Bacon, as Peppiatt observes, “certainly framed it as that in his own mind”. Lacy died in 1962, the year of Bacon’s breakthrough retrospective at the Tate, which also saw the beginning of the famous interviews with David Sylvester in which the artist consolidated the story of his life as he wished it be known – “the myth”, as Harrison puts it. “Before that it was all much less formal, wilder and more dangerous. But as Bacon didn’t keep diaries or records of any kind it’s hard to piece it together.” Bacon’s early years, not least his unlikely Monaco sojourn, are likely to remain a mystery.
Francis Bacon, Monaco and
French Culture is at the Grimaldi Forum, Monaco until Sep 4. The
accompanying book, Francis Bacon: France and Monaco, ed. Martin Harrison,
is published by Albin Michel at £35
Francis Bacon, Monaco and French Culture is at the Grimaldi Forum, Monaco until Sep 4. The accompanying book, Francis Bacon: France and Monaco, ed. Martin Harrison, is published by Albin Michel at £35
London Art Market Rides Out
Brexit, Sets records As Pound Drops
London Art Market Rides Out Brexit, Sets records As Pound Drops
Katya Kazakina Bloomberg July 1, 2016
July 1, 2016
London’s art market was whipsawed like the financial world during the two weeks of auctions surrounding Britain’s historic vote to leave the European Union.
Uncertainty leading up to the June 23 referendum left some sellers hesitating to part with holdings. The political and economic volatility that followed voters’ shock decision, with the pound plunging the next day and Prime Minister David Cameron resigning, disrupted some sales but spurred more.
Held a week after the U.K. voted, the event shrugged off volatility, selling all but four of the 31 offered works. Two scheduled lots were withdrawn.
Titled “Defining British Art,” it was estimated at 95.7 million pounds to 138 million pounds, a significantly higher target than Christie’s two preceding evening sales of Impressionist, modern, postwar and contemporary art, combined.
Francis Bacon’s 1968 Version No. 2 of Lying Figure with Hypodermic Syringe drew two bidders and sold for 20.2 million pounds, as estimated. The work was being resold after 10 years; it had been purchased for $15 million in 2006 at Sotheby’s.
Version No. 2 of Lying Figure with Hypodermic Syringe
June Sales End in Style with
Christie's Defining British Art Auction
June Sales End in Style with Christie's Defining British Art Auction
By MEGHANA REDDY | BLOUIN
ARTINO | JUNE 30, 2016
By MEGHANA REDDY | BLOUIN ARTINO
JUNE 30, 2016
London’s June sales ended on a high note with Christie’s much-anticipated 250th-anniversary auction, Defining British Art. The house had set aside much of its prime material for this curated session and was rewarded with a strong showing — a final tally of £99,479,500 ($133 million), four artist records set — that more than made up for the relatively mediocre performance of its previous auctions this week and last.
The sale was remarkable for the efforts the house made to win consignments of material that it had auctioned previously, in some cases, in the same room. Ironically, because it coincided with a decline in the pound following the Brexit vote, international players might have had an advantage in bidding for works one would expect to appeal to a more local crowd.
Francis Bacon's 1968 Version No. 2 of Lying Figure with Hypodermic Syringe brought £20,242,500 ($27 million), about what was expected. Other versions of the work are in the Beyeler Foundation and the Reina Sofia. This one might have fetched a higher sum if the markets weren’t in turmoil, but that’s up for debate.
FRANCIS BACON (1909-1992)
Version No. 2 of Lying Figure with Hypodermic Syringe
SALE 131oo LOT 6
DEFINING BRITISH AT EVENING SALE
30 June 2016 London, King Street
Version No. 2 of Lying Figure with Hypodermic Syringe
Francis Bacon (1909-1992)
Version No. 2 of Lying Figure with Hypodermic Syringe
signed ‘Francis Bacon’ (on the stretcher); titled and dated ‘Version No. 2 of Lying Figure with Hypodermic Syringe 1968’ (on the reverse)
oil on canvas
78 x 58in. (198 x 147.5cm.)
Painted in 1968
Artist's Resale Right ("Droit de Suite"). Artist's Resale Right Regulations 2006
apply to this lot, the buyer agrees to pay us an amount equal to the resale
royalty provided for in those Regulations, and we undertake to the buyer to pay
such amount to the artist's collection agent.
These lots have been imported from outside the EU for sale using a Temporary Import regime. Import VAT is payable (at 5%) on the Hammer price. VAT is also payable (at 20%) on the buyer’s Premium on a VAT inclusive basis. This VAT is not shown separately on the invoice. When a buyer of such a lot has registered an EU address but wishes to export the lot or complete the import into another EU country, he must advise Christie's immediately after the auction.
Marlborough Fine Art, Ltd., London.
Vanthournout Collection, Belgium (acquired from the above in 1970).
Their sale, Sotheby’s New York, 14 November 2006, lot 5.
Acquired at the above sale by the present owner.
PROPERTY FROM A DISTINGUISHED PRIVATE COLLECTION
Francis Bacon, exh. cat., Paris, Centre Georges Pompidou, Musée National
d’art moderne, 1996, no. 57 (illustrated in colour).
D. Sylvester, Looking Back at Francis Bacon, London 2000, p. 110, no. 88 (illustrated in colour).
M. Harrison and R. Daniels (eds.), Francis Bacon Catalogue Raisonné Volume III 1958-71, London 2016, p. 878 (illustrated in colour, p. 879).
Knokke, Gemeetelijk Casino, XXXIIIe Belgian Summer Festival, Pop Art: Niewue
Figuratie/Nouveau Réalism, 1970, p. 15.
New York, Marlborough-Gerson Gallery, Inc., Francis Bacon: Recent Paintings, 1968, p. 50, no. 15 (illustrated in colour, p. 51).
London, Hayward Gallery, Francis Bacon The Human Body, 1998, p. 101, no. 15 (illustrated in colour, unpaged)
With its writhing, serpentine figure set within a stark amphitheatre of colour and form, Version No. 2 of Lying Figure with Hypodermic Syringe is one of the great masterpieces of Francis Bacon’s finest period: the 1960s. Against a sea of deep, cardinal red, flanked by a curtain of rapid painterly striations, Bacon’s supine nude lies sprawled upon a bed, framed by a vast ocular lens and suspended within a sharp cubic grid. Executed on a monumental scale, spanning nearly two metres in height, the painting marks the critical moment in Bacon’s oeuvre at which the diverse experimental strands of the preceding decade were brought into powerful synthesis: the near-total abstraction of the figure, the visceral animation of flesh, the corporeal handling of pigment and the rich, sensory palette of opulent and electric hues. Closely related to Bacon’s two great Lying Figure compositions of 1966 and 1969, housed in the Museo Nacional de Arte Reina Sofía and the Fondation Beyeler respectively, the painting represents a direct reworking of his 1963 canvas Lying Figure with Hypodermic Syringe. In its transformation of the earlier void-like composition into a living theatre of figural abstraction, the painting tells a story largely untold within Baconian mythology: the relationship between the artist and Willem de Kooning, whom he had met earlier that year. Like the American master’s seminal depictions of the female body as sites of raw, carnal sensation, Bacon’s woman dissolves into a violent, almost eligible tangle of limbs in motion: a dynamic bundle of animal matter in its most rarefied state. Whilst the cage and the ellipse – structures both visible in the present work – had previously provided Bacon with a means of ‘pinning down’ this pulsating figural energy, here they are no longer enough. The operation, transmitted directly from Bacon’s own nervous system onto the canvas, now required a syringe.
Two years after its creation, Version No. 2 of Lying Figure with Hypodermic Syringe was one of the first paintings to be acquired by the Vanthournout collection, remaining in its prestigious holdings for nearly four decades. During this period, it was seen by the public on just one occasion when, in 1998, it was personally requested by Bacon’s foremost critic David Sylvester for his curatorial swansong Francis Bacon: The Human Body at the Hayward Gallery in London. There, it sat alongside an exclusive, tightly-curated selection of twenty-three works that, in the scholar’s opinion, represented the core of Bacon’s practice. For Sylvester, it was precisely the shadows of Abstract Expressionism in this work that justified its place in this elite survey, having previously described how the artist ‘came closer to de Kooning here than in any other of his works’ (D. Sylvester, Looking Back at Francis Bacon, London 2000, p. 108). Though the painting may be understood in relation to Bacon’s landmark Crucifixion triptychs of 1962 and 1965, as well as his celebrated depictions of Henrietta Moraes – whose reclining figure inspired the present work – its dialogue with abstraction ultimately sets it apart from these compositions. Pigment, and its ability to embody sensation, becomes the primary focus of the work; in myriad tones of green, blue, pink, red, yellow and purple, it is swiped, swept and smeared, stippled, shuttered and scrubbed across the picture plane. The central ovular field, contained within a vitrine-like case, is simultaneously an operating theatre, an arena or even perhaps an eye, in which the figure hovers like an optical illusion. The syringe, in this light, becomes an anchor in the face of the formless and nameless: a means, as Bacon himself described, of ‘nailing the image more strongly into reality or appearance’ (F. Bacon, quoted in D. Sylvester, The Brutality of Fact, Interviews with Francis Bacon, London 1975, p. 78).
DIALOGUES WITH ABSTRACTION: BACON AND
DIALOGUES WITH ABSTRACTION: BACON AND DE KOONING
Though Bacon maintained something of a scathing attitude towards Abstract Expressionism throughout his career, the 1960s saw the development of a complex – if, at times, subconscious – dialogue with the movement’s key proponents. The Tate Gallery’s 1959 exhibition The New American Painting had a profound impact on the artist, and many of Bacon’s subsequent compositions – including, most notably, the 1963 version of Lying Figure with Hypodermic Syringe – began to echo the stacked colour fields espoused by artists such as Mark Rothko and Barnett Newman. In contrast to the works of the 1950s, Bacon’s palette morphed from a representational tool to a sensory conductor: colour was increasingly employed for its emotive rather than pictorial potential. A new set of tonalities entered his vocabulary: bright, electric flashes of green, pink and orange that sat in jarring relation to the luxuriant, velvety carpets of burgundy, regal purple and blue carried over from his earlier Papal portraits. As in the present work, these neon hues were frequently employed as halo-like shadows, shrouding his subjects in a radioactive haze. For Bacon, colour gradually became a means of capturing what he described as the ‘emanation’ of his subjects – a tool for abstracting them beyond the physical world. Despite his suspicion of the gestural language proposed by Newman, Rothko, Pollock and others, it was precisely this understanding of colour as a vehicle for transcendence that lay at the heart of their beliefs.
However, of all his Abstract Expressionist contemporaries, it was ultimately de Kooning with whom Bacon most readily identified. The two artists, along with Sylvester, met for the first time in January 1968, at a dinner during de Kooning’s visit to London. According to Ted Morgan, Bacon came to regard him as ‘the great man in the United States for bursting through the abstract and planting an image on the canvas’ (T. Morgan quoted in D. Farson, The Gilded Gutter Life of Francis Bacon, London 1993, p. 141). This notion spoke directly to Bacon’s own practice which, since its inception, had sought to embed the physical and emotive essence of his subjects within the very fibres of the linen: to capture what he referred to as the ‘after-glow’ of the human form and to fix it in paint. De Kooning’s famous assertion that ‘Flesh was the reason oil painting was invented’ resonated strongly with Bacon’s aesthetic agenda, and both artists shared a deep admiration for Chaïm Soutine’s richly-textured depictions of viscera and carcasses. Their shared ancestry in the primitivist aesthetic of Pablo Picasso positioned them as leading voices in what Sylvester termed the ‘figurative sublime’ - a counterpoint to the much-lauded ‘abstract sublime’ practiced by Newman, Rothko and Pollock. Indeed, in his seminal 1980 documentary The Shock of the New, the art critic Robert Hughes paired Bacon and de Kooning as the twentieth century’s most important exponents of ‘the disquieting human figure’ (R. Hughes, The Shock of the New, BBC, 1980).
Nowhere is this parallel more palpable in Bacon’s oeuvre than in the present work. Like the primal beings that confront the viewer from the swirling depths of de Kooning’s Woman paintings, Bacon’s figure is boiled down to a cellular, almost amoeba-like reduction of the human body. Its physical substance is sublimated to a series of abstracted movements, channelled through the sheer force of Bacon’s own physical gestures. For both artists, the tactile condition of sculpture was an important reference point in their respective approaches to human anatomy. De Kooning – who, unlike Bacon, actively worked in the medium – famously closed his eyes whilst modelling clay, bringing his creations to life through touch rather than sight. Bacon’s work too, powerfully rooted in his fascination with Michelangelo and Rodin, was born of an intense physical engagement with the very grain of the pigment. As Robert Melville once wrote, ‘Bacon has used paint as if he were modeling the figure out of wet clay or as if he has forced his hands into the actual substance of the model and sculpted the bone structure in order to intensify the pliancy of the flesh’ (R. Melville, quoted in Francis Bacon, exh. cat., Tate Britain, London, 2008, p. 262). In the present work, Bacon not only moulds but ultimately pulls apart the figure, peeling back the flesh to reveal the twitching nervous system and muscular spasms beneath. By consciously animating the interior of his subject, Bacon allows his figure to break free from its physical condition, liquidating its form to a fluid carnal trace. It is a powerful demonstration of André Breton’s famous assertion that ‘Beauty will be convulsive or not at all’ (A. Breton, Nadja, New York 1960, p. 160).
FORMAL DEVICES: THE GRID, THE OVAL
AND THE SYRINGE
FORMAL DEVICES: THE GRID, THE OVAL AND THE SYRINGE
Throughout his oeuvre, Bacon’s desire to penetrate right to the heart of his subjects was borne out not only by his handling of the figure, but also through the compositional armature in which his subjects were situated. The grids, cages and ovals that increasingly populated his canvases throughout the 1950s and 1960s were conceived as zoom lenses: devices through which to isolate and spotlight the flesh. The distinctive cubic frame, frequently compared to the Chinagraph markings used by photographers to indicate areas for enlargement, has also been likened to the cages in which Bacon’s contemporary Alberto Giacometti submitted his subjects to deep existential enquiry. The elliptical vortex functions in a similar way. Though Bacon has traced the origin of this structure to the ‘beautifully curved rooms’ at the back of his grandmother’s house in Farmleigh, Martin Harrison has identified a number of potential sources of inspiration for this structure, including the circular barriers around casino roulette tables, sporting arenas – particularly those of the bullfight or corrida – the swirling vortexes of Soutine’s landscapes, Max Ernst’s appropriation of the zoopraxiscope and the photographs of operating theatres found in Bacon’s prized medical textbooks (M. Harrison, In Camera: Francis Bacon. Photography, Film and the Practice of Painting, London 2005, pp. 118-121). Elsewhere, it has been suggested that this ovular void evokes an eye - a metaphor for vision, as co-opted by Bacon’s early Surrealist influences Luis Buñuel and Georges Bataille. For Bacon, who worked from a flood of reproduced and half-remembered pictures, photographs and sources scattered around his studio, it was via these geometric frames that he was able to filter the contents of his own mind’s eye into a single, animated image.
In the present work, along with its predecessor, these two structures are joined by a third – the syringe. Within an oeuvre that sought to pierce the very skin of its subjects, the metaphorical significance of this device goes straight to the heart of Bacon’s aesthetic preoccupations. If the cage and the oval attempted to contain the figure, the syringe was a means of pinning it down for closer examination. Bacon’s fascination with Cimabue’s depictions of the crucifixion was ultimately rooted in the same concept: it was through anchoring the human figure, he believed, that its true essence could begin to emerge. Writing of the 1963 version of Lying Figure with Hypodermic Syringe, Gilles Deleuze explained how the image ‘is less a nailed-down body (though this is how Bacon describes it) than a body attempting to pass through the syringe and to escape through this hole or vanishing point functioning as a prosthesis-organ’ (G. Deleuze, Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation, 1981, London 2005, pp. 17-18). Deleuze’s conception of the syringe as an organ of sorts invites comparison with the ellipse’s construal as an eye: they are not only means of ensnaring or fixing the body, but equally vehicles for allowing it to transcend its external appearance. Both are gateways to the abstract tangle of nervous electricity that flows beneath the body’s physical surface. Along with the cage, they exemplify what Deleuze refers to elsewhere as the ‘diagram’ – vectors that interact with the figure, pinioning it to the canvas and thereby forcing its internal energy to the surface.
THE HUMAN FIGURE IN MOTION
THE HUMAN FIGURE IN MOTION
Though the majority of Bacon’s figures were based on people he knew, he rarely worked directly from life. The figurative violence he enacted upon his subjects was, to his mind, so extreme that he preferred to work from photographs. Though the present work is far from a portrait of Henrietta Moraes in the traditional sense, it was nonetheless her reclining figure that formed the basis for its central protagonist. Part of the colourful cast of Soho characters who touched Bacon’s life during the 1960s, Moraes featured in some of Bacon’s most significant paintings from this period, including Three Studies for a Portrait of Henrietta Moraes, 1963 (Museum of Modern Art, New York), Portrait of Henrietta Moraes, 1963, Study for Portrait of Henrietta Moraes, 1964, and Henrietta Moraes, 1966. Many of these works, along with the present painting, derived from a series of photographs taken by John Deakin of Moraes reclining on a bed. Though Bacon specified the exact pose he wished her to enact, the first series of images – which depicted her in an upright recumbent posture – met with dismay: ‘the blithering nitwit reversed every single shot of you I wanted’, he complained to Moraes (F. Bacon quoted in H. Moraes, Henrietta, London 1994, p. 71). He insisted that Deakin take another set of photographs, this time with Moraes lying flat on her back, her head towards the viewer, her arms outstretched and her leg raised. It was a pose that related directly to his earliest Lying Figure compositions of 1959-61, based on Rodin’s Iris Messenger of the Gods. This posture, in various subtly different guises, features in all of the Lying Figures from the 1960s and would, in turn, inform the figures that populated his Crucifixion triptychs.
By the time of the present work, photography – and its extension into cinema – had become a primary point of reference in Bacon’s attempts to capture the human body. The idea of isolating and preserving a split second of figural motion appealed directly to his desire to zoom in on the body’s carnal make-up. Of all the works produced during the 1960s, the present work is among the most powerful engagements with the legacy of Eadweard Muybridge, whose frame-by-frame accounts of the human body in movement provided a deep source of inspiration for Bacon. Arms, legs and torsos are so closely entwined that they mutate to form a single entity. Like a film paused on rewind, or a long photographic exposure, time and movement collapse and coalesce, creating a hybrid being that quivers with heightened sensory charge. The rapid striations of paint that hover behind the figure – recalling the ‘shuttering’ effect that Bacon adapted from the pastels of Edgar Degas – also have their origins in filmic media, reminiscent of shuddering optical static or a cinematic time lapse. Used throughout his oeuvre to express a release of tension – most notably in his screaming Papal portraits of the 1950s and early 1960s – here it recalls the persistent fluttering of an eyelid; a series of rapid blinks, struggling to focus on the swirling vortex of impasto that lies, spread-eagled, in the middle of the composition.
BETWEEN STATES OF BEING
BETWEEN STATES OF BEING
In its virtuosic dialogue between figuration and abstraction, motion and containment, Version No. 2 of Lying Figure with Hypodermic Syringe represents one of Bacon’s most important meditations on the convulsive nature of reality. It is perhaps significant in this regard that Bacon – who up until the 1960s had almost exclusively painted men – chose a woman as his vehicle. Indeed, it is in his depictions of the female form, more than anywhere else in his oeuvre, that Bacon revealed the double-edged depths of his own search for identity. As David Sylvester has written, ‘the two sexes met in Francis Bacon, more than in any other human being I have encountered. At moments he was one of the most feminine of men, at others one of the most masculine. He would switch between these roles as suddenly and as unpredictably as the switching of a light. That duality did more than anything perhaps to make his presence so famously seductive and compelling and to make him so peculiarly wise and realistic in his observation of life’ (D. Sylvester, Francis Bacon: The Human Body, exh. cat., Hayward Gallery, London, 1998, p. 21). In a painting so rich in association, it is perhaps appropriate that Bacon’s central figure should embody the conflict that lay at the heart of his own being. As John Russell said of the artist’s work, ‘the image is nowhere fixed, finite, descriptive; and yet it tells us more fully and more truthfully than any conventional portrait what it is like to be a human being’ (J. Russell, Francis Bacon, London 1971, p. 132). Sprawled upon a bed – the primal site of birth and death – the figure’s transitional state offers a powerful commentary on the human condition in its broadest sense.
Sex, squalor and false
teeth; life with Dickie and Denis
Sex, squalor and false teeth; life with Dickie and Denis
The lurid tale of two of
Francis Bacon's artistic chums both appals and amuses
The lurid tale of two of Francis Bacon's artistic chums both appals and amuses
Roger Lewis Saturday
The Times Saturday June 25
Saturday June 25 2016
BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY Denis Writh-Miller and Richard "Dicky"
Chopping; minor artists and sexual athletes
BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY Denis Writh-Miller and Richard "Dicky" Chopping; minor artists and sexual athletes
Though this panoramic portrait of "the madness of the 20th-century art world" is immensely entertaining, it can't be said that any of the characters represented were admirable or worthy of emulation. Indeed, rarely can there have been a more obnoxious and grotesque crew - and they were like this on purpose.
Lucian Freud, for example, evinced "a great desire to be rude for the sheer love of the thing", according to Frances Partridge, one of the last of the Bloomsberries. Francis Bacon believed cruelty was a form of moral honesty. He wished, says Jon Lys Turner, to "push excess to its furthest limits and offend without compunction". Bacon and Freud spent their adult lives seeking opportunities to witness "human interplay in a raw, raucous, unconstrained and sometimes obscene state". Perhaps that's why Bacon wore fishnet stockings under his trousers and administered "a cornflour enema up his anus so that it would pour out during sexual activity with [his boyfriend George] Dyer"?
In this book, Bacon, and the rest of the Colony Club mob, are discussed in relation to a pair of minor artists, Dicky Chopping (1917-2008) and Denis Wirth-Miller (1915-2010), who kept open house in Wivenhoe, Essex. They acquired their premises on the quay in 1945, making repairs using spare parts from coffins.
The rambling, knocked-through cottage, known as the Storehouse, was rat-infested and often flooded. On one occasion it also caught fire. The insurance claim stated that the conflagration was caused by "a passing jackdaw with a glowing cigarette in its beak". Terrence Conran designed the new kitchen and Robert Carrier dropped by to cook omelettes.
Chopping and Wirth-Miller were a pair of sadomasochistic queens who lived together for 70 gruesome years. Chopping went to a minor public school and was obsessed with John Gielgud - but it was Wirth-Miller who succeeded in being picked up by the great Shakespearean and was fellated by him "to the sounds of muffled chocking". This was because Gielgud had thoughtfully taken his false teeth out first.
Wirth-Miller, who was jailed for nine months for having homosexual sex in a "bombed-out Blitz slum street" during the war, affected an upper-class accent and said his father was shot as a spy in the Tower of London. In fact, he was born in Folkestone, where his mother was a maid and his father ran a hotel.
Wirth-Miller "lost his virginity to an Indian cricketer" on the promenade in Folkestone and fell in with Chopping on the fringes of Fritzrovia, where everyone was drunk and debauched and enjoyed "the ensuing chaos". The artist Nina Hamnett, for example, "was fond of declaring that Modigliani had told her she had the best breasts in Europe". She later flung herself from the window of her top-floor flat and was impaled on the railings.
Indeed, none of these artists who flocked to Wivenhoe fared well. Robert Colquhoun and Robert MacBryde were scarcely house-trained. Chopping and Wirth-Miller would find that "they frequently smashed glasses and drank to excess, and they would carry on even after vomiting". Indeed, they would prise up the floorboards and be sick into the voids. Colquhoun died of alcoholism in 1962. four years later MacBryde was knocked down and killed after emerging from a pub wearing a kilt. John Minton, who was mocked for his "parochial and constrained draughtsmanship" - i.e. he could draw - and was always comatose on the floor, committed suicide with tablets, as did Keith Vaughan.
The survivor was Bacon. Wirth-Miller, in Turner's account, was a minor artist, thoroughly over-shadowed by Bacon, professionally and personally. Bacon, for example, had retrospectives at the Tate and in Paris. Wirth-Miller exhibited at the Wivenhoe Arts club. Bacon, indeed, mocked Wirth-Miller's pictures of bulrushes and mudflats in the Essex marshes.
Nevertheless, although Bacon bought a house of his own locally, he scarcely used it, preferring to share a studio at the Storehouse, using the same paints and canvas as Wirth-Miller. Turner says "their styles may have rubbed off on each other and, in the case of some unattributed works discovered in Wirth-Miller's studio after his death, it is difficult to tell which painter is responsible". Indeed, the disputed works in the plate section are the best Bacons I have seen, especially the shape-shifting hounds and a ghostly figure emerging through a door frame
Chopping, in his turn, didn't wish to compete. He was more of an illustrator and became an expert in the painstaking depiction of insects, animals and plants for Penguin. His books about butterflies and flowers became bestsellers, but his break-through came when Ian Fleming commissioned him to design the jackets for the James Bond novels.
The Chopping skulls, bluebottles and guns became as integral to the 007 image as the immaculate dinner jackets and dry martini cocktails. chopping became well connected enough to be invited to a society wedding, where Wirth-Miller was accidentally hit in the testicles by an 11-year old Prince Charles during an electricity blackout.
Nevertheless, it is not the work that is the focus of Turner's concerns, but the terrible lives that these people felt compelled to lead. Was the constant combativeness their reaction to the expectations of how artists and homosexuals were traditionally meant to carry on? Was it some sort of statement about their aversion to the virtues of middle-class neatness and decorum? ("Your studio is far too tidy. Personally I like a mess," Minton told Wirth-Miller.)
Bacon may have worn foundation and rouge and put boot polish on his hair, and he may have lived with his nanny in Cromwell Place ("she would take the coats and serve the guests drinks"), but he was happiest when, for instance, one of his partners knocked out a tooth during a fight outside the St Ives harbourside pub, the Sloop Inn.
When some younger neighbours - the Bee Gees as it happened - complained about the noise in Wirth-Miller and Chopping's London home, Bacon flung an empty champagne bottle through their window. Nor was he unduly discombobulated, in public at least, by the suicide of Dyer, shortly before his big Paris exhibition in 1971. "Rather than damaging his artistic reputation," says the author, "the story only inflated the Francis Bacon legend."
Chopping and Wirth-Miller were always squabbling. The fashion designer, Zandra Rhodes found them facing each other with knives at the ready. The first problem was the effect of chronic financial insecurity. To make ends meet they once worked as gardeners in a convent, until sacked when some wigs they had given the nuns for a production of The Sound of Music turned out to have been used previously in a drag act
The second bone of contention was sexual jealousy. "It is incredibly difficult," a well-meaning friend told Chopping and Wirth-Miller, "to sustain a kind, loving relationship with endless, promiscuous fucking," e.g. with a spanking gardener in Stockwell and a man in the lift at the British Museum. Chopping and Wirth-Miller treasured a biscuit tin filled with the brass buttons they had snipped from the uniforms of obliging soldiers. Turner has counted more than 200 buttons.
Old age made them worse. Wirth-Miller dyed his hair black and came to resemble Hitler - apt perhaps as the Wirth-Millers were originally Warthmullers from Bavaria. Chopping went bald and purchased a hairpiece, which lifted clean off his head when he removed his motorcycle helmet. They went on holiday to France with Bacon, who sat in the back of the car "with a handkerchief tied round his head, frequently complaining". They dumped him at a railway station. When next they met in Essex, bacon went into an antique shop, bought a plate for £40, smashed it over Wirth-Miller's head, and said: "Now will you fucking shut up?"
Bacon died in Madrid in 1992 and his two friends rapidly slipped into obscurity. In 2005 they became one of the first gay couples to form a civil partnership. Dementia set in, however, and when Chopping slipped on the floor, Wirth-Miller left him there in agony for days. "He deserved it because he was so irritating," was his excuse. Chopping died in 2008, aged 91, Wirth-Miller two years later, a week shy of his 95th birthday. People have been eagerly buying up Wirth-Miller's pictures to scrape the paint off, hoping to find a lost Bacon underneath.
Francis Bacon: creating
order from chaos
Francis Bacon: creating order from chaos
Francis Bacon was a great
artist, but a very bad record keeper. As the definitive inventory of his
paintings is published, Stephen Smith meets the art history detective who
catalogued his life
Francis Bacon was a great artist, but a very bad record keeper. As the definitive inventory of his paintings is published, Stephen Smith meets the art history detective who catalogued his life
The Guardian Friday 24 June 2016
Friday 24 June 2016
Francis Bacon in Monaco in 1981. Photograph: Eddy Batache/MB Art Collection
An unsparing observer of the human condition, Francis Bacon was as unsentimental about death as he was about life. “When I'm dead, put me in a plastic bag and throw me in the gutter,” the old hellraiser told the proprietor of the Colony Room, the Soho drinking den which was Bacon’s second home, if not his first. In his lifetime, the artist reportedly declined honours, including a knighthood and the Order of Merit. “They’re so ageing,” he complained. His friend Daniel Farson once asked if he was pleased that he had secured his place in the history of art. “Oh don’t talk such rubbish!” was the reply.
Bacon had little use for the arts establishment. Despite the lack of an art college education, or perhaps because of it, he emerged self-made. “No one could imitate Bacon without looking stupid,” wrote the critic Robert Hughes. “But to ignore him is equally absurd, for no other painter has set forth with such pitiless clarity the tensions and paradoxes that surround all efforts to see, let alone paint, the human figure in the age of photography.” Finding little to praise in the ranks of his fellow artists – or the critics – Bacon got on with his singular calling of confining screaming popes and anguished lovers to grid-like boxes, as rudimentary and lethal as gin traps. But posterity has refused to repay Bacon’s snub in kind. Since his death in 1992, the fashionable end of the art market has clasped him to its bosom. Three years ago, his triptych of fellow artist and one-time friend, Lucian Freud, set a record price for a work at auction. Three Studies of Lucian Freud (1969) went for £89m. And now every last shrieking pontiff and writhing lover has been hunted down and captured between the pages of the artist’s catalogue raisonné, a handsomely bound and presented five-volume box set the size and weight of a fully laden builder’s hod. Bacon is the one in a box now.
A cat res, in the art world shorthand, is an authoritative record of an artist’s oeuvre, to be consulted by scholars, gallerists, dealers and collectors. Bacon’s includes scores of previously unseen and little known works, and seems certain to challenge the established art history on him. It’s highly collectible in its own right: at 1,538 pages with 800 illustrations, it will set you back £1,000. It’s finished in a louring Baconian grey, the colour of a hospital gurney. Although its object couldn’t have cared less it has been produced with great gravity by the estate of Francis Bacon, which administers the artist’s staggeringly successful posthumous career. And it’s the estate, with its geologically deep pockets, that has supported years of painstaking research to make the catalogue possible. “Although the cost is not being disclosed, it probably amounted to several million pounds,” according to the respected Art Newspaper.
Such an inventory would be the work of a moment in the case of a Jeff Koons or a Damien Hirst. All you’d have to do is access the codes to the artist’s digital cloud and download a fully comprehensive record of every work, including the date, title and perhaps even the names of the men and women who actually made it. But such a neat and tidy solution wasn’t an option with Bacon. He lived a rackety version of the artistic life, gambling, picking up rough trade and shoplifting with his old nanny, like Soho’s answer to Brideshead Revisited’s Sebastian Flyte. His art, too, involved a surrender to chance, accident and disorder. In BBC footage from the 70s, we encounter the painter at his home in Reece Mews, South Kensington. At first sight, it looks like an early pilot for one of those programmes where hoarders are talked out from behind their stockades of junk. Bacon blinks at the heaps of paint-soaked rags that clutter the place like grape skins in a winery. He says, “I feel at home here in this chaos. Also chaos suggests images to me. In any case, if I go into a new room, in a week’s time, the place is in chaos.”
“Can you imagine Francis Bacon keeping a record of a painting?” asks Martin Harrison incredulously. The editor of the catalogue raisonné, Harrison spent a decade tracking down all 584 surviving Bacons – the ones the artist didn’t destroy. For the first time since Bacon’s scandalising forms left his studio, they have been reunited on Harrison’s pages. At the gallery where we meet – where else but Soho? – he has the exhausted but quietly satisfied air of a priest who has performed an exorcism, and has just heard that a well deserved medal is on its way from the Vatican.
Harrison says the artist left him little to go on. “There are one or two diaries with a couple of lines in them. He’d get them from places like Charlie Chester’s Casino, where they handed out little leather-bound diaries. And like lots of us, by 4 January he’d given up.”
Before Harrison, the definitive guide to Bacon was a 1964 catalogue raisonné, published when the artist still had three active decades ahead of him. By then, Marlborough Fine Art in Mayfair had begun to represent him, and the gallery’s administrator Valerie Beston proved to be “an assiduous recorder”, as Harrison puts it. But her ledgers only took him so far. “One was usually searching for paintings which one knew existed. You just didn’t know where they were. Either they hadn’t been exhibited for a very long time, or they had never been exhibited at all. If their owners were middle-aged or older at the time they acquired the paintings, they were almost certainly no longer alive, so the pictures had changed hands. But there were also paintings that turned up and came to my authentication committee that hadn’t previously been recorded at all.”
Harrison discovered that the painter of bracingly uninhibited homosexual encounters had actually produced more female nudes (18) than gay sex scenes (11). And his finds include what may have been Bacon’s “best pope”, which the artist wrongly believed he had scrapped. Bacon was obsessed with Velázquez’s famous study of Pope Innocent X and made variations of it until 1965. He told the critic David Sylvester that he regretted destroying what he regarded as his finest attempt after Velázquez. But perhaps he didn’t destroy it, and perhaps Harrison has found it: a figure in papal purple, legs crossed in a chair or throne, pinioned within a thicket of orange bars and roaring his head off. This pope, painted in 1950, is on the walls of the gallery, one of half a dozen unseen Bacons exhibited to promote Harrison’s text. He says, “Is this his best pope? We can’t tell. All we can say for certain is that this one was lost and has now re-emerged.” It belonged to a group of works that ended up in storage at an art lock-up in Chelsea. “There’s nothing recorded about this but I think Bacon simply forgot about them. After he died, a room was found there with a lot of paintings that he had abandoned.”
Compiling the catalogue demanded the skills of a gumshoe as much as an art historian. “You get on the phone and start ringing people up,” Harrison says. “You’re looking for someone and it turns out there are seven people in Welshpool who have the same name. Or someone would say of a painting, ‘Oh, there was someone in Turin who had it.’ So there was a lot of hopping on planes.” The editor’s labours recall the travails of Norman Sherry, the indefatigable biographer of Graham Greene. For the sake of his triple-decker life, Sherry went everywhere the globe-trotting novelist had been, exposing himself to every blowpipe and mosquito-loud interior. Sherry caught the same illnesses as Greene, and even parted with a length of his intestine. Happily, Harrison can still talk with relish of coming face to extraordinary face with the Bacons he found. “The excitement of getting up close to them is in the ravishing texture, power and energy of the paint, which truly does still turn me on. It’s spine-tingling.”
Though the catalogue raisonné has a steep price tag, it will be made available to deserving institutions free of charge through the largesse of the estate, says Harrison. It is also expected to appear online. “I know someone who ordered three already,” he says. “She owns about eight Bacons. Anyone who owns eight Bacons can afford three of these.” He has uncovered fascinating curios that future biographers will thank him for, including a photograph of Bacon in the unlikely guise of an air-raid warden during the blitz. Harrison’s research has led him to the “unfashionable” conclusion that there are psychological motivations for a lot of the artist’s imagery. “They’re not abstracts, and he’s so devoted to the figure, the human body. I believe things that came out of his own life and experience were crucial to that.”
But mysteries remain about Bacon’s subject matter and motives. Harrison hopes to tease out more about them with an exhibition he’s curating in Monaco next month, which looks at the time Bacon spent in Paris and the Riviera, and some of the artists who inspired him, including Léger and Toulouse Lautrec.
The French capital was the scene of one of the darkest episodes in Bacon’s life. In 1971, his lover George Dyer killed himself a few hours before the opening of a Bacon exhibition. Among the painter’s threadbare jottings, Harrison found a reference to the suicide. “George died a year ago today,” he wrote. A new book claims that he tried to hush up the death for the sake of his career, but that’s not how the tragedy is recalled by friends who were with him at the time.
Dr Paul Brass, Bacon’s former GP, told me, “I remember thinking that Francis wouldn’t come to dinner the night of the opening. But he did. I think he just had a feeling that he couldn’t let everyone down, and he had to go through with it.”
On more than one occasion, Brass was roused from his bed in the early hours of the morning to patch up the worse-for-wear artist. “I once found him in a bad way at his studio, and I said you’re going to have to see a plastic surgeon. He said ‘Absolutely not – you can stitch me up now.’ So we lay him on the table in his studio. I offered him a local anaesthetic but he refused. He was so drunk I don’t think he felt anything.”
Brass once gave evidence for Bacon in court after Dyer, in a jealous rage, planted cannabis in the kitchen at Reece Mews and called the police. “Francis was a chronic asthmatic, and I was able to show that smoking cannabis would have made him very ill.” Shortly after Bacon was cleared, he left a brown paper parcel at Brass’s surgery. It was a thank you present, a self portrait, which the doctor and his wife sold after Bacon’s death for £350,000. It paid for the home they retired to on the south coast. A Bacon of similar size and quality recently went for £5m.
Brass said, “When Francis was very ill, he would say, ‘You know Paul, when I’m dead my paintings won’t be worth anything.’”
• Francis Bacon: Catalogue Raisonné (ed Martin Harrison) is published by the estate of Francis Bacon. Francis Bacon, Monaco and French Culture is at the Grimaldi Forum, Monaco, fromThe accompanying book Francis Bacon: France and Monaco, is co-published by Albin Michel and the Francis Bacon MB Art Foundation, in partnership with Heni Publishing.
Artistic legacy: how a
doctor didn't need anaesthetic to stitch inebriated Francis Bacon
Artistic legacy: how a doctor didn't need anaesthetic to stitch inebriated Francis Bacon
Irish patients lead the world in generosity to family doctors, writes Maurice Gueret, who finds plenty of Brass in Bacon
Irish Independent June 27 2016
June 27 2016
Francis Bacon's studio
Francis Bacon's studio
Irish patients can be very generous to their doctors. BBC2's Newsnight recently interviewed an old-style London GP about a very famous Irishman that he treated. Dr Paul Brass, and his father before him, were family doctors and friends to the artist Francis Bacon. There were frequent house calls to the artist's studio, and Dr Brass described one visit when his patient sustained a nasty laceration. The doctor recommended seeing a specialist plastic surgeon, but Bacon was having none of it. He lay up on the studio table to have stitches put in. Dr Brass said his patient was so inebriated that there was no need for a local anaesthetic.
Bacon had once written to the elder Dr Brass, complaining that he was not getting any medical bills. He demanded invoices for all treatments, or he would have to find a new doctor. Dr Brass recalled that Bacon always paid by return post and was always 15 minutes early for his appointments. Francis Bacon offered the younger Dr Brass a choice between two paintings as a gift. The doctor picked Jet of Water, but Bacon cautioned that it was merely spilled paint on a canvas. So Dr Brass took the other painting, of a rather tortured-looking English cricketer. Bacon told Dr Brass that his paintings would be worthless when he died. Almost 20 years after Bacon's death, the good doctor put the painting up for auction with Sotheby's of New York. It fetched US$14m. There's money in Bacon and Brass.
Dr Maurice Gueret is editor of the
Irish Medical Directory
Dr Maurice Gueret is editor of the Irish Medical Directory
HOW MANY FRANCIS BACON works are there? You might think the answer would be well-known, given the strength of the market for the late British painter’s work. Just one of his pieces—Three Studies of Lucian Freud (1969)—sold for a record $142.4 million in 2013; this May, a smaller series, Two Studies for a Self-Portrait (1970), fetched $34.9 million, nearly $5 million above the top estimate. Yet until recently no one really knew what the total Bacon output was.
Now we have at least a provisional tally: 584. It comes from the monumental Francis Bacon: Catalogue Raisonné, published by the artist’s estate this June. The opus is so substantial in stature—five clothbound volumes, comprising 1,538 pages, in a stand-alone slipcase—as to qualify as an art objet itself (and it’s priced accordingly at $1,500). The contents, including many never-before-published pieces, represent a decade of meticulous detective work by the principal author, Bacon expert Martin Harrison. “I was constantly sending letters all over the world,” he says, trying to find canvases that hadn’t been seen in a half century.
Hugh Davies, the outgoing head of the Museum of Contemporary Art San Diego, who served on the Francis Bacon Authentication Committee, notes that many of the works were new to him. “I think it will really change the scholarship about Bacon,” he says, “and also scramble the canon a bit.” Indeed, Bacon emerges as a somewhat different artist than the one his reputation suggests: a master, for example, of animal painting as well as screaming popes and naked men.
But how could works by such a major talent fall into obscurity? One reason is that the only previous catalogue, from 1963, covered less than half of Bacon’s career. Another has to do with the painter’s capricious attitude to his own creations. In 1951 he abandoned his London studio, leaving behind numerous pieces that he then disowned. Harrison speculates that if Bacon had gone through the 584 cataloged pictures, “blowtorch in hand,” he might have left “about 80.” Art lovers and auctioneers alike will be relieved that didn’t happen.
Francis Bacon: Invisible Rooms At Tate Liverpool
By Paul Black|
New York Arts Magazine|
22 June 1016
Francis Bacon: Invisible Rooms. Tate Liverpool
Tate Liverpool is currently presenting the largest exhibition ever staged in the north of England of the late great existential master of the 20th century: Francis Bacon. ‘Invisible Rooms’ features approximately 30 paintings by the artist alongside a group of rarely seen drawings on paper, but more significantly the exhibition turns out to be a survey of a particular painting device employed by the artist, a curatorial decision designed to shed new light on what is now Bacon’s well known obsession with the entropy of the flesh, and ‘the valves of feeling’.
Curated by Kasia Redzisz and Lauren Barnes, the exhibition brings together works that share the artist’s particular device of framing his figures. For such a long time we have all focused on Bacon’s preoccupation with the visceral subversion of our physical form, while certainly paying less attention to the artist’s spatial constructs: the world in which his figures reside. This architectural form serves to isolate Bacon’s raw screaming lumps of meat – this we already knew. But the artist’s cages are his recurring ‘leitmotif’ embodying a specific idea: that Bacon’s approach to space was of equal importance to the artist’s approach to the human form. The space frame was the essential context for his existentially wrought bodies.
This is never more apparent than in Bacon’s ‘Man in Blue IV, 1954′ and ‘Man in Blue V, 1954′, displayed midway through the exhibition – devoid of the artist’s later cavorting carcuses – instead the central lone figure of each painting is placed in an abstracted space evocative of a room-like environment through the demarcation of space. The faces of these two figures [The paintings being placed together in situ] are closer to traditional portraiture than in other works by the artist, but with a ghostly transparency. These are reminiscent of many other of Bacon’s works from the 50’s, where there is a subtlety to the figures that would later become unusual: forms slightly closer to traditional figuration which would be discarded in later paintings. This gives rise to an increased focus on the spatial environment of the painting; a mixture of representational and abstract lines. The isolated male figure, possibly Bacon’s lover Peter Lacy – is thought to reference the ongoing illegality of homosexuality during the period – leans trapped in an architectural space: a dark and empty room inundated with a superabundance of claustrophobia and social estrangement. With these works the device of the cage is highlighted, the power of Bacon’s space frames are apparent and create that essential context.
It is now no wonder the artist considered creating sculpture (and why Damien Hirst ‘converted’ certain paintings by Bacon into vitrine-enclosed three-dimensional works). Perhaps Bacon could have worked with ‘actual’ space in light of his interior design background, which obviously had a greater influence on his later work than was ever truly realised. As here there is an acute awareness of the spatial properties of the artist’s compositions. Bacon understood and manipulated the architectural space of his paintings to effect his figures. While our eyes were all focused on twisted meat and screaming nurses, Bacon was manipulating their place in the psychological halls of our minds, adding pathos and isolation to the violence of the flesh.
These space frames of late 50s have a greater complexity in later works as the ongoing motif evolves. With ‘Three Figures and Portrait, 1975′ elliptical and circular ‘lenses’ focus on the corrupt body of a suicidal George Dyer with a sense of sadomasochistic voyeurism. These architectural devices not only focus our attention, but also the intent of the artist’s vision, in this particular work the device is a reflection of the artist’s own history with the subject. When British art critic and curator David Sylvester asked Bacon about the artist’s cages and space frames, Bacon replied: “I cut down the scale of the canvas by drawing in these rectangles which concentrate the image down. They are there to highlight, to focus, to point to the figure. They are intensifiers.”
These cubic cages give a solitary existential angst to the artist’s contorted flesh, as behind the visceral screams simmers a neurosis. The rawness of ‘being’ belies paranoia, angst, loneliness and loss. A theatrical stage for the artist’s writhing spines and tortured faces: there is nothing beyond those walls. Nothing beyond the frame. Cages, chambers, and fenced frames lock Bacon’s subjects into a temporal Godless eternity. The flesh rendered all the more futile because of its architectural prison.
The curatorial decisions made in this exhibition highlight the artist’s Godless architecture. It is apparent that Bacon’s ‘theatre’ was of the same importance as the artist’s ‘players’. With all of the myth surrounding Bacon as an instinctive painter, immediate and visceral – from the existential angst of the 50’s to what is sometimes described as almost the self-parody of the artist’s final works – Bacon maintained the physiological complexity and considered structure of his spaces. The real existential horror of the artist’s environments was never really to be found in Bacon’s renditions of screaming haunted meat, but in the voids surrounding them.
Francis Bacon: Invisible Rooms –
Tate Liverpool, UK – until 18 September 2016
Francis Bacon: Invisible Rooms – Tate Liverpool, UK – until 18 September 2016
His first scream - Bacon's pope prototype found
Richard Brooks, Arts Editor
| The Sunday Times
| June 19
Richard Brooks, Arts Editor
The Sunday Times
Bacon probably painted the work in about 1946 after he moved to the south of France
They are the paintings for which Francis Bacon is perhaps most famous. Now a previously unknown prototype for the artist's iconic series depicting "screaming" popes has been discovered in northern Italy.
The discovery of the ghostly, distorted figure was made by the art expert Martin Harrison as he was compiling Bacon's catalogue raisonné, a comprehensive guide to all his 584 paintings, to be published on June 30.
The portrait, entitled Landscape with Pope/Dictator, is believed to have been created in 1946. It has been thought that bacon's attempts to depict popes during that period had been destroyed by the artist.
The series, which by the mid-1960s had grown to more than 45 works, was inspired by a portrait of Pope Innocent X painted in 1650 by the Spanish artist Diego Velázquez.
Bacon's Pope paintings are worth millions of pounds. In 2012 one called Untitled (Pope) sold at Sotheby's in New York for almost $30m (£21m at today's rates).
But the elderly owner of the newly discovered work, who was given it as a present by her late husband, has no intention of selling and only allowed Harrison to include it in the catalogue raisin if he promised to keep her identity a secret.
"The lady's husband bought it in 1967. Sorry, but I can't tell you her name or the city [where she lives]." said Harrison, who described the discovery as "amazingly important, historically".
Harrison, who has spent a decade tracking down Bacon works for authentication after being commissioned by the painter's estate, tried to persuade the owner to allow him to include the portrait in a Bacon exhibition in Monaco that opens next month.
"I told the lady that the value of the painting could easily triple if it went on public display, but she still said no," he said.
Landscape with Pope/Dictator
Landscape with Pope/Dictator was probably painted after Bacon, who died aged 82 in 1992, moved to the south of France with Eric Hall, his then boyfriend, and his childhood nanny, Jessie Lightfoot, who cared for him into his forties.
In a letter to his fellow artist, Graham Sutherland in 1946, Bacon mentioned his fascination with Velázquez, who had been the leading artist in the court of King Philip IV.
Records show the painting was acquired from Bacon's London studio in 1951 and was later held by galleries in Milan and Turin before being bought by the unnamed Italian man.
Harrison is coy about the detective work that took him to the unassuming warehouse in an Italian suburb. "It was a hunch which led me there rather than a tip-off," he said.
Born in Dublin, Bacon spent the late 1920s in London and Paris where he financed his love for fine food and wine by becoming a male escort.
The reasons for Bacon's interest in Velázquez's 1650 painting and why he depicted a figure screaming in many of the works has long fascinated commentators.
Michael Peppiatt, whose memoir of Bacon was published last year, said: "Nobody is absolutely sure what influenced Bacon to depict either a pope [or] somebody screaming... He had what I can only call a crush on that Velazquez painting.
"He may also have absorbed some Catholicism being brought up in Ireland... Bacon never gave clear reasons for anything he painted. He did not want it to interfere with the mystique of the image."
While Peppiatt has some reservations over the date attributed to the painting, Harrison and the Bacon estate have no doubt about its authenticity.
Books: The Visitors' Book:
In Francis Bacon's Shadow:
Books: The Visitors' Book: In Francis Bacon's Shadow:
The Lives of Richard Chopping and Denis Wirth-Miller
by Jon Lys Turner
Delicious anecdotes abound
in this celebration of two minor artists who knew everyone
Delicious anecdotes abound in this celebration of two minor artists who knew everyone
Review by Lynn Barber | Biography | The Sunday
June 12 2016
Review by Lynn Barber
Biography | The Sunday Times
| June 12 2016
Culture vultures: Chopping (left) and Wirth-Miller with Bacon at the latter’s Tate show in 1985
Don’t worry if you haven’t heard of Richard Chopping and Denis Wirth-Miller, I hadn’t, either. It doesn’t matter. They were minor players in the British art world from the 1940s onwards, but the main point is that they knew everyone — first and foremost Francis Bacon, but also Graham Sutherland, John Minton and Lucian Freud (though they hated him), as well as many unexpected people such as Bloomsbury stalwart Frances Partridge (Chopping’s best friend), Kathleen Hale (who created Orlando the Marmalade Cat), the television chef Robert Carrier and the decorator David Hicks. They befriended Noël Coward on a train back from Hicks’s wedding to Pamela Mountbatten; Randolph Churchill invited them to a new year’s party where they were the only guests; Terence Conran designed their new kitchen when their old one caught fire. They invited everyone they met to come and stay at their house in Wivenhoe, in Essex, and many of them did, hence the importance of the Visitors’ Book.
They would have been called pansies in their youth (Wirth-Miller was born in 1915, Chopping in 1917), and Wirth-Miller once spent nine weeks in prison for gross indecency, but they lived long enough to form one of the first gay civil partnerships in 2005. They met at the Café Royal in l937 and Chopping moved into Wirth-Miller’s studio soon afterwards. Up till then, Chopping had had a hopeless crush on John Gielgud and was very excited once when Gielgud followed him down the street. He dived into a cinema, hoping Gielgud would follow, which he did — but sat several rows away. Wirth-Miller explained that he should have gone to the lavatories, where Gielgud would have joined him, but anyway, he said, when he’d been picked up by Gielgud he didn’t like the fact that the actor removed his false teeth before performing fellatio.
The couple spent a rackety two years in Fitzrovia before moving to a tumbledown cottage in Essex at the outbreak of war. They found Cedric Morris’s East Anglian School of Painting and Drawing just over the border in Suffolk, and took lessons there in exchange for doing odd jobs. Wirth-Miller was included in a prestigious show of British landscape painting at the Lefevre gallery, and Chopping became known as a natural-history illustrator. By 1944 they had saved enough money to buy the Storehouse in Wivenhoe, which remained their home for the next 60 years.
Wirth-Miller was the more serious artist, who concentrated on painting landscapes (two of his works are in the Royal Collection), but Chopping was more highly paid as an illustrator. His Butterflies in Britain remained in print for years, but his biggest coup was designing the trompe l’oeil James Bond book jackets, which were so distinctive they were used as posters for the books. (He once went round the Circle line, counting the posters for Thunderball at every station.) In later life he took up writing, and also gave classes at the Royal College of Art, where he taught the students about “Life. About wonderful, salacious life.”
Chopping was the steadier character — “affectionate, gentle, kind”, according to Partridge. Wirth-Miller had demons, much exacerbated by drink. This is probably why he got on so well with Bacon, who told him towards the end of his life: “I consider you my only true friend.” Bacon would often take a taxi down to Wivenhoe at the end of a Soho evening and he wrote to Wirth-Miller whenever he was away. They attempted sex on one occasion but it was no good — “bread with bread” — though this didn’t affect their friendship.
Chopping and Wirth-Miller were both promiscuous; Chopping once drew up a list of his sexual encounters: “Spanking gardener in Stockwell — name escapes me; Dumpy man with rubber boots — by dustbins; Man with hair transplant — bus stop near Harrods” et al, but gave up after filling seven pages of A4.
The end was terrible. By 2008, Chopping was increasingly frail and Wirth-Miller was losing his marbles. Chopping could no longer climb the stairs so he slept downstairs, but one day, when his carer didn’t arrive, he tottered into the kitchen to get some water. He fell, cracking his head and dropping his mobile phone out of reach, and spent a night on the cold floor. When Wirth-Miller came down in the morning to make breakfast he stepped over Chopping, ignoring his cries for help, and did the same at lunchtime. He also deliberately smashed his mobile phone. “He deserved it because he was irritating,” he explained. Eventually, Chopping was rescued by a neighbour but he died in hospital 10 days later. Wirth-Miller survived another two years.
This book will be an absolute goldmine for Bacon biographers, especially as the letters cover patches of his life barely known about before — for instance, a three-month stay in St Ives during the autumn of 1959, which he found “a stronghold of really dreary abstract stuff”. But it would be unfair if The Visitors’ Book was read only as a footnote to Bacon. Though somewhat scattily written, it is full of memorable vignettes, delicious anecdotes and many moving letters from Chopping to Wirth-Miller and vice versa. Jon Lys Turner first met Chopping at the RCA in 1981 and remained a friend till his death in 2008; he inherited the couple’s archive, including the eponymous Visitors’ Book, and he has made good use of it in this haunting biography.
One of the stranger items left after their deaths by Wirth-Miller and Chopping was a wartime biscuit tin full of buttons from military uniforms. Each time either of them had a sexual liaison with a serviceman, they would snip a memento from his uniform as a keepsake. The tin contained some 200 buttons.
Francis Bacon: Invisible
Francis Bacon: Invisible Rooms
The largest exhibition of Bacon’s paintings ever held in the north of England, it takes as its curatorial framework the spaces the artist painted around his famously brutalised figures – outlines of cubes, rings, platforms and provisional rooms
Tate Liverpool 18 May – 18 September 2016
ROSANNA MCLAUGHLIN | STUDIO INTERNATIONAL |
Francis Bacon in his studio in London in 1974. Photograph: Michael Holtz
From howling heads to the abstract meat fetishes of his later work, Invisible Rooms is organised into thematic, roughly chronological sections, that chart the evolution of Francis Bacon’s spatial demarcations. Crucifixion (1933) – a small, early painting of a skeletal figure on the cross – provides a key to the significance of the over-arching theme, showing how the libidinal violence that marks the imagery of Bacon (1909-92) is also fundamental to his use of pictorial space. The outline of the room begins at the corners of the canvas, shrinking to a vanishing point that penetrates the tortured figure. Perspective: another technique for exacting injury, another tool for baiting the wound.
In one of Bacon’s best known triptychs, Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion (c1944), a trio of toothed, phallic monsters are set against a vivid orange backdrop. Here, the outlines of the rooms serve to wall these creatures in, ramping up the intensity. Ascension? Not a chance. Bacon offers no horizon, no escape, revelling instead in the dark erotics of flesh under duress. This febrile potency of entrapment is made explicit in a section of the show titled Cage, where, alongside a number of shrieking, boxed-in heads, hangs Chimpanzee (1955), in which an incarcerated ape shakes itself in primal frenzy.
It is a mark of Bacon’s influence that his rabid monsters, eerie scene-setting and theatrical meat-fests have become popular tropes of psychological turmoil. We now return to such imagery through the lens of David Lynch, whose cult series Twin Peaks takes Bacon’s surreal operatics to the point of kitschy psycho-drama, and director Ridley Scott, who based the priapic monsters in sci-fi horror film Alien on those in Three Studies. While this attests to Bacon’s enduring status, it places his most overtly dramatic works in the shadow of Castle Camp-Noir: entertaining, yes, but largely drawn of poison.
At Tate Liverpool, then, it is the less familiar works that pack the most visceral punches. Study for a Portrait of P.L., No. 2 (1957), on loan from the University of East Anglia, is a prime example. A sickly pink torso is boxed into the centre of the canvas, painted about the groin in broad, ragged strokes, so that the legs appear not so much unfinished as ripped off. The mask-like face is painfully exaggerated, with swollen brow and hollow cheeks, but held back from descending into Bacon’s trademark psychedelic miasma. Eschewing his penchant for the papal palette of deep reds, emerald greens and ceremonial purples, the background here is painted hospital green – a pallid colour that combines with Bacon’s mutilating brushwork to nauseating effect.
Tate curators Kasia Redzisz and Lauren Barnes, along with Ina Conzen of Staatsgalerie Stuttgart – where the show will tour when it closes in Liverpool – have constructed a relatively anonymous curatorial framework, allowing Bacon’s development to set the tone. There are moments, however, when this comes unstuck, most notably in the introduction to two works from Bacon’s Man in Blue series (1954), on show under the vaguely titled section heading Subject/ Space. On both canvases a suited figure sits at a desk in a dark blue room, exuding the menace of banker and brute in equal measure. Tate speculates that these figure are based on Bacon’s lover, Peter Lacy – Lacy destroyed many of Bacon’s works in drunken rampages, as well as assaulting Bacon himself – explaining that they depict the “isolated male figure”, and communicate “a sense of anxiety and hopelessness”, resulting from the “illegality of homosexuality.
For a painter who once suggested the government “bring back hanging for buggery”, this is a s anitised reading. These paintings appear neither “anxious” nor “hopeless”: they emanate a colossally injurious atmosphere, channelling the erotic terror of the businessman – a terror far more palpable to the contemporary viewer, say, than the histrionic popes displayed beside them. When Bacon’s paintings are in the ascendency, it is as if they are dancing in an open wound: they offer no judgment, no moral, and they certainly table no plea for sympathy. Remarkably for an artist dedicated to painting fetishised, mutilated masculinity, this is the only mention of sexuality in the entire exhibition – what a shame, that this maker of difficult, electrifying erotics should be subjected to such a vanilla revision.
Study of the Human Body (1982), on show at the end of the exhibition, counts among Bacon’s most absurdly sexual works. A body from the waist down stands proudly on a plinth, genitals out, wearing cricket pads and with buttocks for a torso. This ridiculous figure captures with dark humour Bacon’s fetishising of masculine dominance. Not an ape, a pope or a businessman, but a distinctly normal “master” – and a subject whose very normalcy brings to the canvas its own shudder of horror: the gentleman savage of the English county green.
It is now par for the course that institutional shows dredge up archival ephemera, and a selection of sketchbooks and drawings has been duly assembled. Bacon “denied making preparatory sketches”, Tate tells us, and the overwhelming purpose of this section appears to be to prove this a lie – a bubble-bursting ambition, which suffers the deadening consequences of demonstrating the most humdrum aspects of Bacon’s workings. (The printed transcription placed beside an illegible diary entry from 1958 is a prime culprit, revealing an instruction to “concentrate entirely on studies of human figure” – one wonders what insight this can possibly offer us to an artist who focused, for more than six decades, on little else.)
Among this generic ephemera is one illuminating document – an undated newspaper clipping of two boxers in a ring, one standing fist raised, the other lying prone on the mat. Bacon has painted a cube tight around the standing man, and blue wavy lines over his legs, enhancing his musculature. It is the victor, and not the victim, who is exulted by this invisible room. “Pity the meat!” wrote philosopher Gilles Deleuze, in response to Bacon’s taste for brutalised bodies. But within this show, the question of how we should feel with regards to Bacon’s subjects is brought to the fore – whether to pity or fear, abhor or fetishise, and most importantly of all, how to deal with the excited shock of standing before his paintings and feeling both.
hid his lover's suicide to save career
hid his lover's suicide to save career
| ARTS CORRESPONDENT | THE
TIMES | JUNE 3 2016
ARTS CORRESPONDENT | THE TIMES
| JUNE 3 2016
Bacon with his lover George Dyer, who killed himself in a Paris hotel
Francis Bacon conspired to hush up his lover’s suicide so that the death would not jeopardise the most important show of his career, an author has claimed.
George Dyer, a burglar and associate of the Kray twins, took an overdose of barbiturates in the couple’s hotel room in October 1971 shortly before Bacon’s exhibition at the Grand Palais in Paris. The pair had argued before Bacon went out gambling and drinking with friends.
The official story was that he learnt of the death during the private viewing on Monday, October 26. One art critic said that Bacon reacted with powers of self-control “to which few of us could aspire”. Photographs of that evening show Bacon laughing with friends.
Fresh evidence suggests that Dyer died on the Saturday and was found the following morning, one and a half days before the private view.
Jon Lys Turner, author of The Visitor’s Book, has found testimony from two sources that suggests Bacon and his friends persuaded the authorities to keep the death secret overnight in case it caused the show to be cancelled.
Turner found a note written by Bacon’s friend Richard Chopping that recalled the artist’s reaction on seeing the body. He shouted: “How am I going to have a big opening with this scandal? Oh, trust George to totally fuck it up!”
The story was corroborated by Terry Danziger-Miles, who worked at Bacon’s gallery in London. Valerie Beston, who represented Bacon, persuaded the manager of the Hôtel des Saint Pères to be discreet about the death.
Turner wrote: “Beston was capable and intelligent. She had been at Bletchley Park before joining the Marlborough Gallery. She immediately went to speak to various officials so that Dyer’s death would remain unreported.”
The Visitor’s Book is published next Thursday.
Inside Francis Bacon's
Inside Francis Bacon's 'Invisible Rooms'
Florence Waters speaks to
curator Francesco Manacorda about Tate Liverpool’s new exhibition, Francis
Bacon: Invisible Rooms
Florence Waters speaks to curator Francesco Manacorda about Tate Liverpool’s new exhibition, Francis Bacon: Invisible Rooms
CHRISTIE'S | FINE ART | INTERVIEWS |
2 JUNE 2016
FINE ART | INTERVIEWS
| 2 JUNE 2016
Throughout his career Francis Bacon painted figures surrounded by a ghostly cage or structures that reference stages or arenas. Now Tate Liverpool has brought together more than 30 of Bacon’s paintings for Francis Bacon: Painted Rooms, the first exhibition to explore this mysterious aspect of his work. Although they are subtle, these cages hold the key to unravelling the painter’s most complex themes, as the curator Francesco Manacorda explains.
Didn’t the Tate hold a wonderfully comprehensive Francis Bacon exhibition only relatively recently in London?
Francesco Manacorda: When you go to a typical retrospective you’re thrown into themes and technique at the same time. At Tate Britain’s 2008-09 show, for example, people might have seen these cages, but it’s unlikely that they would have noticed what changes about them, and what they come to mean in different periods.
Why focus on something so subtle?
It’s a discreet part of the composition, but it can change the dynamic of the painting. For example, looking into a vitrine is a voyeuristic act.
Did the cages mean different things to Bacon at different times in his career?
In the 1950s it’s the shattering element that’s important. So he’ll paint a figure through a curtain-like screen. It’s a very interesting device when you think of theatre, or you think of psychoanalysis and the idea of what is taboo and what you show and don’t show — the idea of fetish and how you want to hide and reveal at the same time.
Those are things that are not present in the 1970s or 1980s. Colour becomes more important and the arena or stage is like a fourth element in a more complex space, where you have the background, the podium or stage, the figure and the structure.
The boxing ring-like space is an interesting one. It’s a fixed structure, a containment of a force or animal-like struggle, and also pertains to people looking at it, so again there’s an element of voyeurism.
Why is it important to highlight these differences in his work?
Bacon’s paintings might seem, on a superficial level, to express bleakness and angst. In fact, as soon as you start reading them on a deeper level, they’re always expressing a tension or an unresolved feeling, such as sexual desire and guilt. Or the conflict within us as a both a social and a wild animal, which is what he’s trying to stage with the screams. It is this element of two forces in opposition that this exhibition helps to reveal more clearly.
How did looking at some of the very rough drawing studies in Tate’s collection help spark the idea for this show?
Bacon tries in his drawing to see how a blobby figure might look in this particular vitrine or frame. It’s interesting because his sketches are like the preliminary workings of a theatre designer. They investigate how to incorporate movement, and how a scene can develop and unravel in a space, and in front of the public.
Bacon was not interested in abstract painting. Do you think that by including this sculptural structural device he was separating himself from a tendency in painting to proclaim the flatness of the canvas?
I think his research is absolutely unique. He was not interested in abstraction, but he wasn’t interested in figurative painting either. He abhors the idea of narrative in painting — being able to describe something taking place. Even when I talk about theatricality, there’s this tension of theatricality without resolution. There’s never a dramatic development. His works are almost like a stop-frame image from a film — a teaser — that doesn’t let you see what’s going on.
Do you think there’s something about the ambiguity of the structure, the ghostliness of the outline, which makes the figure seem more real and more present?
That contrast is definitely what he was looking for. The more ghostly and unreal the architectural structure is, the more vivid it makes the opponent. That element of dualism, of two things working against one another, is there in all his work.
If Bacon had depicted proper rooms, the reality and the dynamism that he managed to achieve through the blurriness of the moving figure would not be there.
He seems to use a dry brush sometimes — to convey the cage in a thin, scratchy way?
Yes, and by contrast he would add sand to his impasto so that it becomes fleshier.
What have been the main surprises for you in your research, taking in the drawings and the source material as well as all these paintings?
It’s helped me to understand that these paintings are not necessarily staging one existential feeling, but a variety of them. They are particularly rich because they enable us to perceive this sense of being. Looking at the drawings and in particular his unfinished painting, you can really feel that journey — that’s he’s struggling to resolve a problem. It’s really a great thing.
Francis Bacon: Invisible
Rooms runs until 18 September 2016 at Tate Liverpool
Francis Bacon: Invisible Rooms runs until 18 September 2016 at Tate Liverpool
Francis Bacon's –
Francis Bacon'spainting gloves are going to auction
The paint-splattered gloves
are proof that we worship artists’ relics – from Turner’s paintbox to Pollock’s
brushes – as traces of genius in their own right
The paint-splattered gloves are proof that we worship artists’ relics – from Turner’s paintbox to Pollock’s brushes – as traces of genius in their own right
ON ART | ART | THE GUARDIAN |
WEDNESDAY 1 JUNE 2016
ON ART |
ART | THE GUARDIAN
| WEDNESDAY 1 JUNE 2016
Francis Bacon’s painting gloves, used by the artist in his studio at the Royal College of Art, are headed to auction.
s art a modern religion? It’s like the joke about sex being dirty: it is if you’re doing it properly. At its most powerful, art can offer a cosmic sense of place that for many of us religion no longer provides. The other day, I visited the latet incarnation of the Mark Rothko roomat Tate Modern. No matter how much Tate moves it about (right now it’s with Monet), this imposing installation of black, purple and red paintings of dark portals always takes me out of myself and makes me think about the bigger things.
Art resembles medieval Christendom in another way: we revere not only artists but also their relics. A curious instance of artistic worship is the sale next week by Chiswick Auctions of a pair of gloves warn by Francis Bacon. They are painting gloves, apparently, and Bacon wore them when he created one of his most renowned works, his triple portrait of Lucian Freud.
Chiswick Auctions obviously hopes a bit of the price-tag magic Three Studies of Lucian Freud’s conjured when it sold for £89m in 2013 will rub off on the gloves when they go under the hammer. The paint-stained gloves are framed like a work of art and have an estimated value of £5,000 to £7,000. Who would pay that much for a pair of gloves? Quite possibly a Bacon fan with some spare cash. And I would be the last to carp, because relics of artists really are moving.
Last year, I made a pilgrimage to the Peggy Guggenheim Collection in Venice to see a single painting by Jackson Pollock. I was equally moved by the brushes and sticks the artist used to drip and flick paint, still stained with his strong colours. Pollock’s painting gear is a wondrous, intimate record of how he worked. At the Picasso Museum in Paris you can see the chair the painter used as a rest for his brushes. It is kept behind glass, like the precious artefact it is. If Turner is more to your taste, Tate Britain owns not only a huge hoard of his paintings but also his palette and paintbox, carefully preserved since his death in 1851.
Bacon’s gloves are a comparatively humble relic of the Irish-born artist. The Hugh Lane Gallery, in Dublin, has preserved his entire studio behind glass. Bacon’s work space can be viewed in this installation as a paint-spattered reliquary. Is there a connection between Irish Catholicism and this appetite for Bacon’s relics? Regardless, it is fascinating to see – a sealed room haunted by his macabre imagination. And what did you see, Clarice?
Bacon is a living force in art – and the art market. The strangest mementoes preserve artists who many people have long forgotten. I include the sculpture studio of GF Watts, immaculately maintained along with other souvenirs of this Victorian artist at the Watts Gallery in Surrey, as well as the perfectly conserved flat in which Gustave Moreau lived that adjoins his studio in Paris. I am a big Moreau fan, so I love it, but when I took a group to see it, they were aghast at this bizarre remnant of symbolist Paris. Other relics of the 19th-century avant garde include some Moroccan musical instruments collected by Delacroix.
Artists keepsakes go back to the Romantic age and reflect our romantic belief in artistic genius. Yet the greatest ones are works of art themselves. Michelangelo’s sculptures, their unfinished surfaces pockmarked by his chisel, are evidence of genius at work. Personally, I feel a religious awe at these tangible marks of Michelangelo’s living presence. Great artists are immortal, and their physical being is held in their art like a face on a shroud.
Organised chaos … a reconstructed version of Bacon’s studio at the Hugh Lane Gallery in Dublin.
Francis Bacon/Maria Lassnig,
Tate Liverpool: 'Myriad connections'
Francis Bacon/Maria Lassnig, Tate Liverpool: 'Myriad connections'
Tate Liverpool's double bill of two figurative painters is a stroke of cultural inspiration
Jackie Wullschlager | Financial Times | May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016
Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion (c1944) by Francis Bacon
“The only reality is pain”: Kafka’s summing up is quoted by Maria Lassnig in her writings on her own art, and it informs all Francis Bacon’s work. What a stroke of curatorial inspiration at Tate Liverpool to show these painters together, in two impressive solo presentations, independent yet sparking myriad connections.
Bacon and Lassnig, born within a decade of each other — 1909, 1919 — fought the same battles: to paint figuratively during the heydays of abstraction and pop; to convey the anguish of the human condition when irony and conceptual games held sway. Both staged the figure in artificial space, both set out to translate bodily sensations into paint..
But on other fundamentals facing mid-20th century painters — the uses of photography, expression of self — they were polarised. Tate’s juxtaposition sensitively unravels opposing strategies and possibilities.
Lassnig’s is straightforwardly an art of autobiography. Her most famous painting is the confrontational, bald, wrinkled, naked old age self-portrait “You or Me”, in which she holds two guns, one pointing at her own head, the other at the viewer: it says that her relationship with the outside world is so troubled that to express herself in paint was a matter of survival.
Liverpool opens with the large-scale 1960s “Harlequin Self-portrait” and “Figure with Blue Throat”, evocations of Lassnig’s cropped body set down in economical, fluid, ravishingly coloured painterly lines, with the white canvas as torso. They take their stance from art informel and are about subjectivity, boundaries between self and exterior. The show closes with blisteringly frank self-depictions of extreme frailty: sagging body fragmented and doubled on an institutional bed in “Hospital” (2005), the defiant “Self-portrait with Brush” (2010-13) where the left arm and hand wielding the brush are incomplete because at the age of 94 Lassnig could barely hold it.
An urgent yet loose, sensual handling, and a Fauvish palette of heightened flesh tones from rose to crimson, occasional brilliant yellow or bright blue grounds, interspersed sometimes with toxic greens or sickly yellows, lasted her life. She could be witty, as in her self-portrait “Lady with a Brain”, in which her brain is placed outside her head as a difficult appendage. Or sarcastic, as in “Kitchen Bride”, which depicts a cheese grater bowing in deference. But always the drive was to depict what the body feels like within.
A space-age techno-nun enclosed in a plastic veil, Lassnig suffocates in “Self-portrait under Plastic”. Blind with domestic rage, mouth shrieking wide, neck constricted by red bands, she turns a cooking pot into a blindfold in “Self-portrait with Saucepan”. In “High Seated Female Figure” she is so hemmed in by the pressure of a confining armchair that her body morphs into it. “Pink Electricity” is orgasmic, torso and upper legs abstracted into luminous pulsating pink waves.
So intensely does paint represent feeling here that you understand why Lassnig rejects photography as an unthinkable mechanical intrusion into what painting does. She called photographers “protheses artists”. “Double Self-Portrait with Camera” shows Lassnig as the camera would render her appearance — banal, moderate — and as she feels: a monstrous, squat, depressed figure.
Repeatedly she draws attention to her medium. In “Inside and Outside the Canvas” a figure has climbed through the canvas and wears it like a dress. In “Self-portrait with Stick” an enormous stick — brush? crayon? — merges with her body, while behind, on a canvas-within-a-canvas, is a portrait of an elderly woman, Lassnig’s mother, whose hands project into the picture’s “real’ space, resting on Lassnig’s shoulder: a psychodrama of control and liberation, artifice and emotion.
Lassnig, little known outside her native Austria until her last decade (she died in 2014 at the age of 95), is the revelation of Liverpool’s double bill. The reason her art does not dwindle before the power of Francis Bacon, the greatest postwar figurative painter, is because it is so subjective, even narcissistic, that it demands to be taken only on its own terms. (An animated film, The Ballad of Maria Lassnig, whose jazzy strains enliven the show, is comically self-absorbed.)
Bacon demands the opposite. “The very great artists were not trying to express themselves. They were trying to trap the fact,” he said. Aping Velázquez’s sumptuous surfaces and grandeur of composition in the velvety purple 1950s popes in “Figure Sitting” and “Study for a Portrait”, or deconstructing Picasso’s deconstructions, and throwing in filmic and photographic sources — in the wildly cruel “After Muybridge ‘The human figure in motion’: Woman Emptying a Bowl of Water and Paralytic Child Walking on All Fours” — he went for timelessness: pictures which would end up in “either the National Gallery or the dustbin, with nothing in between”.
But Bacon is never simple. He also admitted that his crucifixion compositions — the ghostly silver 1933 “Crucifixion” and “Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion” (1944) launched his oeuvre and open this exhibition — were “nearer to a self-portrait”. The art historical motifs, the twisted, sprawling, leaking figures who howl, wrestle, suffer, die, in the triptychs, all transform autobiographical experience — savage beatings by his father, masochistic relationships with lovers Peter Lacy and George Dyer, their lonely deaths — into modern myths of alienation and futility. A standout loan from the Hirschhorn in Washington DC is “Triptych Inspired by TS Eliot’s ‘Sweeney Agonistes’”, tight multi-hued canvases of battered dissolving bodies on a sort of trampoline that condense nihilism into vast sweeping formal rhythms, as Eliot did.
That triptych also starred at Tate’s Britain’s massive 2008 retrospective, and Liverpool’s show, the largest ever devoted to Bacon in the north of England, feels essentially like a scaled-down version of that London exhibition, with a welcome stronger focus on the earlier period — Bacon’s greatest. Collaborating with Stuttgart’s Staatsgalerie, Liverpool has garnered stellar German-owned works: Düsseldorf’s caged “Man in Blue V”, Stuttgart’s “Chimpanzee”, eerily close to Bacon’s bestialised human forms, Frankfurt’s silky screaming “Nurse from the Battleship Potemkin”, Berlin’s awkward sexy “Portrait of Isabel Rawsthorne Standing in a Street in Soho” before what looks like a car morphing into a bull.
Liverpool’s subtitle “Invisible Rooms” proposes a theme about trapping the image in a space frame, but since Bacon placed almost all his figures in such transparent cages, this is neither basis for selection nor offers fresh illumination. Bacon insisted his reasons were formal — “I cut down the scale of the canvas by drawing in these rectangles which concentrate the image down” — rendering Tate’s attempt to organise by content (“Cage”, “Arena”, “Body/Sculpture”) irrelevant. It doesn’t matter: Bacon is Bacon, his nightmarish claustrophobic vision magnificently offset here by the open views of the Mersey in the most compelling, beautifully hung show I have seen at Tate Liverpool.
To September 18
To September 18
Spanish police make arrests
over stolen Francis Bacon works
Spanish police make arrests over stolen Francis Bacon works
Seven held over five
paintings and other valuables that were taken in burglary of Madrid home last
Seven held over five paintings and other valuables that were taken in burglary of Madrid home last summer
Nadia Khomami | The Guardian | Saturday 28 May 2016
Saturday 28 May 2016
A photo released by Spanish police of
one of the five Bacons stolen last July.
A photo released by Spanish police of one of the five Bacons stolen last July.
Seven people have been arrested in Spain on suspicion of involvement in the theft of five paintings by Francis Bacon, worth a total of €25m (£19m).
The paintings were stolen last July, along with other valuables belonging to the owner, who is reported to have been a close friend of Bacon. The works, which comprise portraits and landscapes, are yet to be recovered.
Detectives said they were approached in February by British private investigators specialising in the recovery of stolen artworks who had received an email with photographs of the paintings and asking whether they were listed as stolen.
Investigators analysed the photo and were able to determine that the camera that took the images was owned by a photographic equipment rental company, which supplied details of the customer who had rented it at the time the paintings were photographed.
The customer, who is suspected of involvement in the crime, was among those arrested, along with a Madrid art dealer and his son.
Sources close to the investigation said in March that the theft appeared to have been a highly professional operation that took place while the owner was away in London.
The thieves disabled an alarm system and tracked the owner’s movements to ensure he did not return to his apartment to catch them, they said.
El País quoted a source as saying the works were stolen last June, but news of the theft was only made public earlier this year.
It is not known which paintings were involved but one contemporary art specialist told the newspaper they would be extremely difficult to sell. “It is not at all easy to sell a Francis Bacon, large or small, without that getting to the ears of those who pore over such a rarified sector,” said the expert, speaking on condition of anonymity.
Irish-born Bacon often visited Madrid, where he spent time studying old master paintings in the Prado Museum, and died in the city in 1992, aged 82. His paintings are hugely sought after, and in 2013 the sale of his 1969 work Three Studies of Lucien Freud fetched $142,405,000 (£90m) at auction, a world record at the time.
Spanish police did not say when the arrests were made. The investigation continues.
light on Francis Bacon's art and controversial life
sheds light on Francis Bacon's art and controversial life
reveals artist's unseen works — and his masochistic side
Five-volume publication reveals artist's unseen works
— and his masochistic side
MARTIN BAILEY | THE ART
NEWSPAPER | 25 May 2016
MARTIN BAILEY | THE ART NEWSPAPER
25 May 2016
Francis Bacon catalogue raisonné will offer an unprecedented view into his
art—and his controversial private life. Bacon’s surviving oeuvre, totalling 584
paintings, is catalogued in 1,538 pages. Less than a third of the pictures are
in museums, with most hidden away in anonymous private collections. Thanks to
colour reproductions, some available for the first time, it is now possible to
clearly see the development of Bacon’s art.
Although the catalogue will not be published until 30 June, it was launched yesterday (24 May) in London’s Soho—the quarter where Bacon drank and felt at home. Martin Harrison, the editor, has devoted 10 years to the project. He travelled endlessly, failing to locate only one painting, Head with Raised Arms (1955), which was last recorded in Turin more than fifty years ago. The catalogue was funded by the Francis Bacon Estate and although the cost is not being disclosed, it probably amounted to several million pounds.
Harrison believes his catalogue will provide a much more nuanced view of the artist’s work, showing us “what Bacon painted, rather than what people imagine he painted”. He points out that there are only 11 pictures of copulating males, compared with 18 female nudes (although Harrison admits that some are androgynous, making it difficult to give precise figures). The paintings also offer a view into Bacon’s private world, including his complex relationships with male lovers.
Francis Bacon's Self-Portrait with Injured Eye (1972).
The sadomasochistic side of Bacon’s life emerges in Self-portrait with Injured Eye (1972). According to Harrison’s entry, “Bacon reputedly suffered many beatings, which as a masochist he may not have found entirely uncongenial”. The injured eye in his painting stands as “an autobiographical symbol”. At the catalogue launch, Harrison said that when it came to George Dyer, a long-term companion, Bacon “wanted to be raped by Dyer, whereas Dyer wanted to cuddle Bacon”.
discusses the “complicated” relationship between Bacon and Lucian Freud. Bacon
painted Freud 16 times between 1951 and 1973, although they fell out after Freud
saw the injuries sustained by Bacon after he was beaten by his friend Peter
Lacy. Freud retaliated by twisting Lacy’s collar around his neck.
Among the more surprising images in the catalogue is a privately-owned triptych of Mick Jagger (1982). Although no rock and roll fan, Bacon was fascinated by the lead singer of the Stones. Three Studies for a Portrait (Mick Jagger) (1982) was painted from photographs.
The catalogue also includes numerous portraits of Robert and Lisa Sainsbury, who were among his early patrons. Harrison suggests that one of Lisa (1955), now at the Sainsbury Centre for Visual Arts, was based on the bust of Nefertiti and “bore only a slight resemblance” to the wife of the supermarket chairman.
Harrison also deals with the controversial question of Bacon drawings. He describes the status of 40 works on paper dating from 1958 to 1961 acquired by Tate in 1997 as “problematic”. They are not drawings, in any conventional sense, but “rapid sketches”, he says.
Notable for their absence are the 600 drawings which some claim Bacon gave to an Italian lover, Cristiano Lovatelli Ravarino. Ten were on sale at the Herrick Gallery in London last month, at prices of up to £750,000. Harrison has not authenticated the Ravarino works.
The final painting in the catalogue raisonné is an unfinished portrait done shortly before Bacon’s death in 1992. The work, which is now at Dublin City Gallery, was found on Bacon’s easel in his studio. Although usually described as a self-portrait, Harrison admits that “some uncertainty surrounds the identity of the man”. Bacon’s world still remains shrouded in layers of mystery. Although the catalogue raisonné represents an astonishing achievement, it cannot be the last word on the artist’s legacy.
• Martin Harrison (ed.), Francis Bacon: Catalogue Raisonné, 5 vols., Francis Bacon Estate (distributor Heni Publishing), 30 June, £1,000
• A one-day exhibition of six major Bacon paintings is being held today (25 May) at 6-10 Lexington St, London W1F 0LB, 10am-9pm
No one can hear you
No one can hear you scream...
The raw melodrama of Francis Bacon meets the humour and humanity of Maria Lassnig in this superb double bill
Laura Cumming | The Observer | Sunday 22 May 2016
Sunday 22 May 2016
There is a Francis Bacon pope in Tate Liverpool that is barely a squeak from high camp. It shows the pontiff in sumptuous purple robes, raising his dainty little hands in a fit of girlish horror. It is a very strange addition to the long sequence of screaming popes; indeed this pontiff is not screaming so much as wincing with his eyes closed. But it makes the point, as Bacon’s paintings so often do, that there is sometimes very little distance between hilarity and nervous hysteria.
This is not why the image is currently on display in the largest Bacon show ever held in northern England. No, it is here because the figure is immured in a diagrammatic version of the throne in Velazquez's portrait of Pope Innocent X, from which all of Bacon’s many variations issue. And more than that, he is boxed in a black cube (within an already dark painting) that might be the very definition of an invisible room.
This phrase, which gives the show its subtitle, was coined by the French philosopher Gilles Deleuze in a famous mediation n Bacon. Deleuze was preoccupied by the painter’s strange and original pictorial space. This is so familiar by now that it is odd to come across a Bacon that doesn’t have that flat backdrop of glowering darkness or gorgeously rich colour; that doesn’t have those architectural sketch-lines hinting at cubes, cages, arenas, plinths or cells; that doesn’t have those thin black or white lines, sometimes scumbled, sometimes spectral, sometimes incisively clear.
Often they set a scene quite precisely: a window and the door of a hotel room; a parlour with curving architecture and a portrait by Bacon hanging on the wall; a sheaf of vertical lines that look like the shimmering strip curtains of an otherwise sepulchrally dark nightclub, though this might also be the anteroom of hell, given the contortions of the figure.
This man is Peter Lacy, one of Bacon’s lovers, who appears in another painting apparently mired to the waist in a newscaster’s kidney-shaped desk, except that this is 1957 and they hadn’t yet been invented. Nor indeed had Samuel Beckett yet written of Winnie, up to her waist in sand in Happy Days. For all that Bacon found so many of his sources in the past – Velázquez, Eadweard Muybridge’s motion photographs, Victorian boxing, Picasso’s cubist distortions – his visions often leapt in advance of western culture.
‘A horrifying perpetuum mobile’: Study for the Nurse in Battleship Potemkin, 1957 by Francis Bacon
Since these diagrammatic structures appear everywhere it seems an odd theme for a show: practically anything by Bacon might be admitted, for one thing, and attention to these schematic stagings, what’s more, seems quite unnecessary. The relationship between ground and figure, to use that old phrase, has always felt conspicuously theatrical in Bacon’s work. His pictures are stage sets with wings, entrances, scenery and downstage performances in which the figures stand out starkly against the backdrop, sometimes in ellipses like spotlights.
And while the curators harp on about the usual themes of postwar futility, theatrical alienation and existential angst, it is worth pointing out that when the art critic David Sylvester asked Bacon about those invisible rooms, he simply replied: “I cut down the scale of the canvas by drawing in these rectangles which concentrate the image down.” They are there to highlight, to focus, to point to the figure. They are intensifiers.
Tate Liverpool has managed to borrow 29 major works from European collections, such as the outstandingly sinister painting of a child creeping round a circuit on all fours from Amsterdam, and the raw, screaming figure of the nurse in Battleship Potemkin, trapped in some kind of cage-like swing from the Städel Museum, in Frankfurt. In each case the mise-en-scène implies a horrifying perpetuum mobile.
It gets worse in the Hirshhorn Museum’s immense Triptych, where the bodies appear thrashed to a pulp and contained in some kind of glass case raised up on a platform. An observer, hanging on the phone, peers at them through the glass. And in an anonymous hotel room with a deep blue view some terrible bloodbath has apparently occurred: or are these simply bloodstained clothes tumbling out of a case? It is hard to know what is going on in this sequence – as hard as Bacon wanted it to be.
For what is really going on in his opera of gaping mouths and writhing figures, what is Bacon actually doing with – to – his figures? Flanged, spraddled, twisted, split apart and reassembled like the botched and shattered faces in Henry Tonks's first world war portraits, they appear to twist and melt, materialise and evaporate against the backdrop in nameless torsions. How this is done remains elusive. Bacon used the grainy back of the canvas, and somehow got his paint to seep into the surface like blood – very often while describing blood with exceptional brilliance, and his drawings (many shown here) indicate all sorts of sources, from medical textbooks to monkey manuals. But still these morphings remain defiantly mysterious.
And they veer quite melodramatically from violence to Carry On comedy. A mouth yowling in silence becomes funny when the teeth inside are awfully clean and tidy. A brutal coupling, when the bodies are as hard to tell apart as eels in a pail, gets a comic punchline with a neatly painted packet of fags. John Berger long ago compared Bacon to Walt Disney, and this goes to the balletic exuberance and graphic zip of his art. All these rectangles, cubes and ellipses are marvellously concise and strong. Whatever else, they keep the wild dynamism in place.
Whether they describe actual places, too, will perhaps become clearer when Martin Harrison’s immense Catalogue Raisonne is published next month, with its revelation of many unfamiliar paintings. In the meantime, their ingenious ambiguity is apparent all through this show. Here is the ghoulish circus ring that doubles as a cattle pen; here is the black void that might be an electric chair. Narratives begin to form in your head – is this figure trapped in a gas chamber, or a witness box; is this ectoplasm gas or a man’s shadow? – but the story is sidelined every time by the sheer force of the image. The lesson of Liverpool is that Bacon’s art is exactly what he wanted it to be, no matter how many ways we might like to explain it: not stories but pictures that hold their own, a set of deathless, inexplicable images.
In an embarrassment of riches, Tate Liverpool is also presenting a show by the late and very great Austrian painter Maria Lassnig (1919-2014), which appears to have strong links with Bacon. Lassnig was also compelled by the experience of having, and being, a body; with sex and death and mordant humour. Her coinages are superb, especially with the self-portraits: herself as a shrieking cheese grater or a saucepan head, herself as triangle jabbing away at a square. She clambers out of the canvas, sinks into it, emerges from it like a newborn baby. Painter and painting are inseparable.
The late works, which seem to grow brighter as she aged, are masterpieces of courageous invention: above all, paintings such as What Next?, where the woman is becoming a thing of paper, and Hospital, which shows what few artists have ever portrayed. Three heads lie on pillows beneath triangular lights. They are dozing, suffering, waking; but beneath the sheets, like a tideline, their poor thin bodies are dying away. It is a most magnificent picturing of mortal illness and it has a quality that Francis Bacon lacks: the abiding power to move the viewer.
Francis Bacon: Invisible
Rooms and Maria Lassnig are at Tate Liverpool until 18 September
Francis Bacon: Invisible Rooms and Maria Lassnig are at Tate Liverpool until 18 September
By Craig Raine
| New Statesman | 21 May 2016
21 May 2016
The Waste Land was one of Francis Bacon’s favourite poems. A phrase from section 2, “A Game of Chess”, exactly epitomises Study of the Human Body (1982): “And other withered stumps of time/Were told upon the walls”. This closing picture, one of 29 paintings on show at Tate Liverpool, depicts a body part, a gross truncation, bereft of torso and head. Topped by its bottom, it is a rump, a sturdy circumcised cock in a haze of pubic hair, and white-booted legs, advancing towards the viewer, clad in cricket pads. We are advised that David Gower, the England batsman, was an inspiration, but I wonder if Eliot’s word “stumps” didn’t also play its part, consciously or sub-consciously, as a verbal trigger.
The whole of Bacon’s masochistic homosexuality is encapsulated in this painting. Most of the indispensable parts are there – the penis, the buttocks, the anus – though the mouth is absent, presumably too tender for the ideal rough encounter. In fact, a mouth-part is there, displaced, but not the lips and tongue. You can see a row of teeth in the right cricket pad where, just below the knee, the white protective ridges have been summarily and severely pruned. We are familiar with Bacon’s much-advertised “bleakness” – his default position that flesh is simply meat – but this painting is replete with grim humour. It captures the ridiculousness of sex, its quirks, its absurd categorical imperatives, as well as its terror. It is also a painting about vulnerability: those protective pads represent the fear (and desire) of being hurt and they expose paradoxically the body parts that are conspicuously unprotected, parts that have agreed to be a sexual object.
Before Bacon became a painter in the 1930s, he was an interior decorator, by all accounts rather derivative, sub-Bauhaus. It’s hard to get excited about furniture, so we lazily accede to this verdict, eager to get on to the paintings. However, there is one aspect of interior decoration that makes a significant contribution to the painting. It is the curtain. In his early days, Bacon had Bloomsbury connections, including Dorothy Todd and Madge Garland, a lesbian couple who were the sometime editor and fashion editor of Vogue. Garland’s Bruton Street flat had as part of its furnishings Bacon’s surgical white rubber curtains. There are curtains, glistening Dacron drapes, in many of Bacon’s early paintings, all of them painted with effortless bravura, as you might expect from a former interior decorator.
Critics have been puzzled by the recurrent presence of a tassel in many of Bacon’s pictures. In Study for a Portrait (1952), a man’s head and bust, you can see the tassel and, on the suit lapel, the shadow of the tassel. The head is based on the bleeding nurse in Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin, a favourite Bacon source easily identifiable by the skewed pince-nez. Halfway up the painting there is a curtain on metal rings. The tassel isn’t symbolic. It is there to close and open the curtains. (Photographs of Bacon’s Reece Mews studio by Perry Ogden in this exhibition show similar tassels for electric lights and blinds.)
The ubiquity of curtains is explained by the potent sexual topos of medicalisation – those latex curtains in Bruton Street, the suggestive safety pins in other curtains – where the implicit scenario is one of prescribed helplessness. Where procedures take place and things are done to the patient’s body. Behind the curtains, obedience and submission and the strong possibility of pain. (Many of Bacon’s compositions, we know, were based on K C Clark’s Positioning in Radiography.) This Tate Liverpool show centres its interest on the cage of lines that Bacon used to contain his images – those spectral glass or perspex cubes that are touched in. I think the curtains are more important and carry more charge. The spectral booths are sufficiently explained by Bacon’s admission that they are a simple pictorial device to anchor the central image and concentrate the viewer’s attention. They are there against the threat of aesthetic amorphousness. Whereas the curtains are there to enclose their subjects – who are subject to the premise of physical threat, the imminent arousing unknown, the claustrophobic promise of pain.
Which brings us to the Baconian signature scream. We remember all those screaming popes after Velazquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X. There are also screams emitted from apes and chimpanzees and various other human figures. We are familiar with the photographic sources – the bloodied nurse and her crushed pince-nez, the teeth of a machine-gunner also from Eisenstein. But if they are a signature touch, they are someone else’s signature – a brilliant forgery.
There is a famous anecdote about Bacon. Princess Margaret, a touch tipsy at a ball thrown by Lady Rothermere, decided to seize the microphone and sing a selection of Cole Porter and similar stuff. Everyone listened respectfully. But Bacon, who was there, couldn’t bear it – the singing and the sycophancy. He booed very loudly. Caroline Blackwood, who was later married to Lucian Freud, recorded Bacon’s account: “Her singing was really too awful. Someone had to stop her. I don’t think people should perform if they can’t do it properly.” Lèse-majesté – and an index of Bacon’s fearlessness, of his refusal to be intimidated, which is part of his gift as a painter. He is no respecter of reputations and he takes what he needs when he needs to, just as Eliot believed that great poets steal and minor poets borrow. He asset-strips Rembrandt’s Slaughtered Ox (1655) for several crucifixions.
The scream is stolen from Munch’s iconic painting. What a heist. So huge a theft that no one mentions it. You search David Sylvester’s Looking Back at Francis Bacon(2000) in vain for any reference to Der Schrei. Instead, Munch is dismissed brusquely as a non-influence because he is Expressionist, a painterly stance Bacon explicitly repudiates: ‘I’m not really saying anything [as he thought Munch was], because I’m probably much more concerned with the aesthetic qualities of a work than, perhaps, Munch was.’ So, a rather disingenuous denial of content. But it is unsurprising to me that Giacometti, later a friend and ally, should have initially dismissed Bacon’s work as Expressionist. Bacon takes Munch’s kitsch Nordic universal scream, critiques it and refines it. He gives it teeth.
And the teeth are interesting. They come in two basic types. For human beings, the teeth are uniform, regular at top and bottom. For animals, there are additional incisors – which, now and then, are given to the human mouth to suggest a shared animality. They express pain, the agony of orgasm, pity and terror, rage, appetite, fear, pleasure. One of them might be booing Munch’s cosmic vulgarity. Bacon is true to the versatility of the human mouth. He loved the mouth: “I’ve always been very moved by the movement of the mouth and the shape of the mouth and the teeth. People say that these have all sorts of sexual implications . . . I like, you may say, the glitter and colour that comes from the mouth, and I’ve always hoped in a sense to be able to paint the mouth like Monet painted a sunset.”
What do we make of this declaration? Of this desire to remove the mouth from its bodily functions, its ingestions, its semantic gestures, and see it as a simple inanimate phenomenon? (It is no surprise to learn that Bacon admired Damien Hirst’s flayed cow’s head aesthetically, for its colours – that wet intestinal pink.) We see, I think, Bacon’s dislike of “illustration” and his fascination with the painterly process and the part played by chance. The playwright Patrick Marber remembers “playing roulette with Francis Bacon in the Charlie Chester casino in Archer Street, Soho. He was gleeful. ‘Isn’t it wonderful when you win! And you know what, it’s quite good fun when you lose.’” It sounds perverse and is part of gambling pathology, but it is also indirectly a telling anecdote about Bacon the artist. The excitement of gambling reflects on the comparable excitement of painting – the way it can go wrong at any moment, as well as the brilliant accidents created by the pigment on the brush.
When Bacon spoke in favour of keeping Titian’s The Death of Actaeon for the nation, he emphasised the top corner in which Actaeon is transformed into a stag and torn apart by the dogs: the images, he said, were “never absolutely definite”. This lack of clarity and definition is often a strength in Bacon. Take Chimpanzee (1955): the animal is contained in a spectral cage, incisors savagely bared, behind it and to one side a dark grey wall marked with darker slant lines like a sign for rain in Japanese painting. The lines represent steel mesh, very effectively. But what Bacon really gets, in spite of the apparent blur of brushstrokes, is the chimpanzee’s pink prehensile feet and the shortness of the legs.
Or consider Triptych (1967) (formerly known as Triptych Inspired by T S Eliot’s Poem Sweeney Agonistes, a title wished on Bacon by his gallery). The right-hand panel shows two men fucking, a composition based on two wrestlers in Eadweard Muybridge’s photographic “dictionary” of movement, like stills from a film. The painting gives new meaning to the phrase “one flesh”. It is inextricably itself, with a single set of teeth there in the mix. In the left-hand panel, two post-coital women with long hair and possible breasts, lie intertwined and splayed, having done it in front of a mirror, a mirror that reflects their feet and a desolate chest of drawers with its upper drawer pulled suggestively open. The confusion of the bed is captured exactly by virtue of its inexactitude.
Bacon can be surprisingly exact and representational. In the foreground of this panel Bacon has painted an ashtray and a softpack of cigarettes. In the central panel is an eviscerated hold-all, rendered with great panache, with a line of zip teeth. There is a cloth-covered stool on which rests a leather-bound ledger. All these details are unmistakable.
His rendering of faces is recorded strikingly in this show. We think of the archetypal Bacon face as a set of smears and swipes that emulate motion pictures and movement, but this is a relatively late development. Early on, there are faces in mid-dissolve, partially corroded representations. There are striated features that derive from Picasso’s “primitive” paintings, which look to African carvings. And there are straightforwardly representational portraits, for example of Lucian Freud entering a room down a set of stone steps. The face is conventionally set down and doesn’t look much like Lucian Freud. Bacon gets better likeness with greater freedom of treatment. And he wanted likeness, reasonably enough: “I mean, there’s no point in trying to make a portrait that doesn’t look like the person.”
There are two paintings from the Man in Blue 1954 suite (IV and V) in which the faces are poised between the conventionally realistic and the faintly unfocused. You could pick out the person in an identity parade – his combed-back dark fair hair, the strong jaw and mouth, the pronounced eyebrows – but the whole is on the edge of pixelation. The paintings have immense conviction: the upper torso is suited, the lower body masked by a conference table, the hands clasped and resting attentively on the table. In V, the posture is listening. He isn’t screaming. His face is recognisable but hard to describe, like a model in wax, just this side of melting. Here there is no cage of lines. That particular function is performed by the lines of the table and the sequence of pleated drapes behind the sitter’s head. It is exquisitely, unostentatiously composed, and miles away from the melodrama and rhetoric we often, lazily, assume in Bacon’s paintings: “But it is more than that: it has a cosmic dimension, as if it were a Mouth of Hell. It seems to suck in and expel every particle of energy in the air.” David Sylvester, mouthing off, as if Bacon were Munch.
The exhibition runs until 18
The exhibition runs until 18 September
They made a pig's ear of Francis Bacon
They made a pig's ear of Francis Bacon
With its mediocre works, poky gallery and pointless wall texts, this exhibition
imprisons the painter
With its mediocre works, poky gallery and pointless wall texts, this exhibition imprisons the painter
Rachel Campbell-Johnston| Visual Arts | The Times | May 20 2016
Portrait of Francis Bacon by John Deakin c 1962
Francis Bacon was the greatest painter in postwar Britain. And this is certainly the most extensive and probably the most significant show of his work to be staged in the north. So no one could argue that it is not a good thing. Britain’s regional galleries should get more great exhibitions. However, is this one of a calibre to lure visitors from outside Liverpool? To convince complacent Londoners, for instance, to take a train north?
The answer is no. You will find only a few of the best of Bacon’s impetuous and hence hit-and-miss paintings. The most important of these are his Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion from 1944. These are the images that launched his artistic career (before that he worked as an interior designer), but don’t imagine the weeping Marys of Christian tradition.
gainst a burnt orange backdrop, bruised and misshapen lumps squat, yowl and stretch, yawning dark-mouthed or baring rows of bloody teeth. There is something brutally primal about these embryonic mutants; something that feels frenzied and savage and viciously instinctive. Violence runs berserk. And no wonder. Bacon identified them as the Eumenides, the furies of Greek legend who would pursue wrongdoers to a vengeful death.
A triptych first exhibited at the close of the Second World War, in the same month when Nazi atrocities in concentration camps came to light, it was seen as an image of insatiable human brutality. Visitors were “brought up short” by pictures “so unrelievedly awful that the mind shut up with a snap at the sight of them”, declared one contemporary report.
Bacon’s pictures can still work in this way, but you wouldn’t know it from this exhibition. His aim — famously stated in The Brutality of Fact, his series of classic interviews with David Sylvester — was to create images that could rise to the surface with the “foam of the unconscious” still clinging freshly to them. “Some paint comes across directly on to the nervous system,” he said. “Other paint tells you the story in a long diatribe through the brain."
His greatest works do the former. They work by a mixture of feeling, intuition and luck. Yet by and large Bacon’s best works — his haunting screaming popes, his triptych recording the death of his lover George Dyer, his magnificent portraits in which faces are smashed in, their flesh muddled — are missing from this exhibition. Instead there are far too many images that over-do the detail and look more like a hammed-up mess than a sublimation of some visceral experience. There are too many pictures from his late years.
The curators try to make up by instead offering us “a long diatribe through the brain”. They focus specifically on the way in which Bacon articulated space in his canvases, introducing artificial structures (as an introductory wall text explains it) that can elevate or exaggerate the figures within. These enclosures are the “invisible rooms” of this show’s title.
They are there, it is true. Bacon does frequently capture an atmosphere of psychological claustrophobia, evoke an animal energy about to burst through restraining bars, by presenting figures within arenas of colour or cages of crude brush strokes, by creating mirroring structures and strong veering planes. Yet the curators, in bringing all these images together, turn what should feel like an untamable energy into what starts to seem more like a trope or even a trick. Bacon is trapped in the structures of his artifice.
It doesn’t help that Tate Liverpool scarcely has enough space. A secondary show, of the work of the Austrian painter Maria Lassnig, another artist who wrestles with the body but in a very different way, fills the other half of the exhibition galleries. It would have been better to have given her a miss and to have given Bacon the space for his energy to break out.
Explanatory wall texts further deplete the experience. Avoid reading them. It adds nothing to know that a cloth in a picture “may relate to the curtain of his Cromwell Place studio”. Nor can the suggestion that the lurid pink arms of a pope may refer “to photographs of Hitler rehearsing hand gestures for a speech” detract from your suspicion that this canvas is one of Bacon’s failures.
The conveyance of “fact” that Bacon refers to so frequently is nothing to do with the iteration of detail. And the concentration of this show upon his “preparatory drawings” only further dissipates the force. Far too much is made of the few daubs — often just a crude splodge or two of paint — that Bacon has applied to magazine images. This show may have begun as a laudable venture, but it ends up imprisoning Bacon within all too visible rooms.
Francis Bacon: Invisible
Rooms is at Tate Liverpool from May 18 to September 18
Francis Bacon: Invisible Rooms is at Tate Liverpool from May 18 to September 18
Francis Bacon: in the studio
Francis Bacon: in the studio
By Lucy Davies | The
Telegraph | 19 May 2016
19 May 2016
The late Francis Bacon in his London studio, 1974
The British painter Francis Bacon (1909-1992) was a self-taught artist. Born in Dublin, he moved to London in 1928, where he earned his living as an interior decorator until he won almost instant notoriety with Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion (1944). His instinctive, visceral paintings are predominantly figural. This week tae Liverpool opens Francis Bacon: Invisible Rooms, which considers the cages and enclosures Bacon sometimes painted around his subjects, to make them appear trapped.
Author Michael Peppiatt was 21 when he met Bacon, in 1963, while writing a piece for an issue of the student magazine Cambridge Opinion dedicated to Modern art in Britain. Despite the difference in age (Bacon was then in his mid-fifties) the two struck up a friendship and met regularly over the next 29 years, until Bacon's death. This the latest in our In the Studio interview series draws on his knowledge of Bacon's routine.
Bacon got up very early, usually with first light, even if he’d come home very late and very drunk, because he liked to get going at the first possible opportunity.
Sometimes he didn’t feel like working, and pottered around a bit, but if he did he would go straight into a picture. He used to say: “If it’s going to work, it usually works right away, or not at all.” He worked quickly, so often he managed to finish a painting in a few sessions.
He started the day with strong tea – he made a very good cup, usually to battle the hangover. He was a very disciplined person. He said, “You have to be disciplined in everything; above all in frivolity.”
He had a mews house in South Kensington, where he lived and worked for the last 30 years of his life. It consisted of two rooms with a bathroom and kitchen in-between. He had his bed in the sitting room and the other room was his studio, so he could just pad straight in from where he slept.
It was very, very chaotic, with about a foot of books and photos and rags and paint brushes and paint, old sweaters and socks on the floor. It looked like detritus but in fact a lot of it was an image bank: he had all these photos and pictures, and sometimes you couldn’t really work out what he’d seen in them, but obviously he had seen something. I was lucky enough to get in on a few occasions when he wanted to show me a new painting or I was helping him look for something. It don’t remember it smelling of turps and linseed oil – he was asthmatic and he must have done something to go a little easy on his lungs. It was the visual shock that I remember more than any other sense.
It was an ordered chaos – I think he knew vaguely were things were, but he was often looking for things – images, clothes, books, and on one hilarious occasion when we were out gambling and he had run out of money, cash. He kept shaking out all these pots of dried paint and suddenly there was a flutter of big notes falling through the air.
He treated his walls as a sort of huge palette. There were paint marks rising up all over them and over the door, too. It was partly trying out colours, and partly cleaning his brush. The room was lit by a skylight, which wasn’t particularly bright, and a small north window. I think he had the electric light on a lot of the time, which was just a powerful bulb hanging down, no shade.
It was a small space; narrow with low ceilings and very crowded. They had difficulty getting the big paintings in and out. He usually worked on one painting at a time, the exception being the triptychs, which he would have lined up against the wall – it would have been impossible to make room for three easels next to each other in that room.
He was always immaculate when he went out, in a freshly pressed suit, without a trace of any paint. I think he was quite careful to differentiate. He made a point of not letting people into the studio when he was working. For Bacon, painting was a very solitary activity. I think he worked in a dressing gown or an old pair of trousers and a sweater.
He never listened to music while he was working, he just wanted to focus on the painting. But outside of that, he liked things like Edith Piaf and other crooners, such as Nat King Cole.