I began my research, trying to piece together the fragmentary evidence, and discovered that for many years even Francis’s date of birth could not be confirmed or the details of his parentage, let alone anything substantial about his upbringing and education. It was as if, having chosen enigma as the source of his art, Francis had cloaked his life in it as well. Gradually I put together an archive of related background material illuminated by a handful of indisputable facts, photographs, letters and eventually early exhibition notices and reviews. Francis had said that it would take a Proust to tell his life, but I found that before any tale could be told at all it took dull, dogged fact-finding.
At times while I was writing the biography of a man who would have remained near-invisible were it not for the traces left in his oracular imagery, I wondered to what extent Francis had foreseen that I would devote a large part of my life to preserving and enhancing his memory. There is no doubt that he had gone repeatedly out of his way to impress his whole personality on me, with all the thoughts, memories and interpretations that he wanted to record. But there would have been dozens of other impressionable young people who had wandered into his orbit and who would have been equally receptive. Why had the task fallen to me? I wondered repeatedly, as I grappled with the difficulties of writing a life of someone who had so constantly covered his tracks. Francis had barely ever mentioned his schooldays, for instance, so I located his few surviving schoolmates and, from their ancient reminiscences, tried to dredge up a portrait of him as a young man. But the portrait came to life only once these pale memories had been blended with Bacon’s own vivid account of his father’s throwing him out of the family house shortly thereafter and packing him off to Weimar Berlin.
Francis affected dandyishly not to care whether his paintings stood the test of time or whether his life story would ever be told, with or without the Proustian insight he believed it required. ‘When I die,’ he told me, more than once, ‘I just hope everything about me just blows up, just blows up and disappears.’ But of course it didn’t. Curiously, the very fact that Francis pretended indifference to what happened after his death has fanned worldwide interest in both the man and the work to an astonishing degree. In one sense, of course, Francis’s whole existence was devoted to drawing attention to himself, and far from disappearing he has seen off all his rivals in twentieth-century art except for his one-time master Picasso. And perhaps Bacon may come to be seen as even more significant in the history of art than the protean genius of Málaga. No artist since Van Gogh, it is already evident, has grown so powerfully in mythical stature from beyond the grave as Francis Bacon.
One late-autumn afternoon, many years later, I am back in Francis’s old studio on the rue de Birague. All the furniture, including the brass-bound sea chest, the big easel and the trestle table with its paraphernalia of paint tubes, brushes and rags, has long disappeared. The walls and the heavily beamed ceiling have been repainted in the exact matt white that Francis originally chose. The room stands totally empty but nothing else has changed: the same, even northern light coming through the tall, elegant windows, the same carved wooden shutters, the same Versailles parquet on the floor. The nostalgia I feel looking round this immaculate, vacant room turns to melancholy as I reflect on how brimming with life this space once was and how neutral and banal it is now, emptied of all traces of Francis’s presence and creativity. I can still see him here, laughing, full of vitality, eager to get back into the pleasures of Paris. I start thinking too of the various canvases painted here, from the intimate evocations of George, whose suicide still weighed on him, to the astonishingly vivid portraits of Michel Leiris and the starkly concentrated, translucent images of his last years.
I turn to leave, hoping to get away from the powerful feelings of loss and sadness that are enveloping me, but just before I go I pull open the built-in wardrobe where Francis always left a few clothes. It is completely bare inside now but the haunting, pungent smell of his asthma inhaler, which always pervaded the places where he lived, wafts up. The moment I breathe it in it sets off a series of images sliding through my brain that I cannot stop. Francis’s face close up laughing, the spin of a roulette wheel, Nada, Nada, a glass of wine spilling like blood over a tablecloth. I push the wardrobe doors to right away but the inhaler’s corrosive smell is already settling in my lungs, releasing a chaotic flow of memories.
Outside it is already dusk and a fine rain has begun to fall. The ancient lamps cast a faint glow over the large, empty courtyard. Once it would have been filled with horses and carriages, with people going intently about their lives. They have gone, and coming after them others immortalized in early photographs taken here with their confident expressions and stiff clothes have gone. Generations have gone, and the courtyard is silent now. Emotional and confused, I think of people I have been close to and who are now dead. I think of you, Danielle, and you, Zoran, and I think fleetingly, awkwardly, of my own dead father. As I make my way over the courtyard towards the street I picture each of the glistening, yellowish cobblestones as marking a grave, uneven little memorials to the dead whom I knew and who are now beyond recall and whom we will rejoin, whatever and wherever they may be. And standing under the lamplight, although I know it is no more than a rush of fantasy, I find a headstone for you, Sonia, and for you, George and John Deakin, for Michel Leiris and Isabel Rawsthorne and all the others I have known through those hundreds of hours in clubs and restaurants, with the champagne pouring and the conversation rising as if neither would ever end. I think back to that mass of time bright with the hopes and illusions I once had, the unbearable excitement entwined with the blackest despair, now all gone, all past, all lost. I think of the horror of life and the beauty of life, standing there in this graveyard of my own imagining, its fleeting grandeur and its certain decay. And I can no longer hold back the tears. Emotions that have been held in check for years well up, and I cry as I haven’t cried since I was a child sobbing myself to sleep, but I also cry as an adult in the awareness and acceptance of death. I cry for myself and I cry for all the dead and I cry for Francis, through whom I came to know them and who, like a light gone out, is himself dead. And slowly it comes home that this powerful surge of feelings that he has left in me can be unleashed at any moment, out of the blue, when I come across a torn photo, glimpse a familiar face or hear a half-forgotten song. Once Francis Bacon is in your blood, he will be there for ever.
Gradually the tears subside, leaving a huge void of relief behind. The light coat I’m wearing is wet from the rain. I shake myself like a dog, then I move on, crossing the formal gardens of the Place des Vosges and into the old, dark streets beyond.
Acknowledgements
I am particularly grateful to Rebecca Carter, my agent at Janklow & Nesbit, for having advised me so skilfully at every stage of this book. Rebecca combines extensive publishing expertise with outstanding editorial flair, and I have benefitted hugely from both.
My warmest thanks to my editor, Michael Fishwick, who encouraged and guided me throughout. I am also grateful to the whole team at Bloomsbury, notably Alexandra Pringle, Anna Simpson, Laura Brooke, David Mann and Oliver Holden-Rea.
My greatest debt is as ever to my wife, the art historian Jill Lloyd. This book is dedicated to her and to our children, Clio and Alex.
I should like to take this opportunity to thank the following people very sincerely for their help, their encouragement and their friendship: Frank Auerbach, Kate Austin, Ida Barbarigo, Oliver Barker, Peter Beard, Alice Bellony, Philippe Bern, Tony and Glenys Bevan, David and the late Laurence Blow, Anne and Yves Bonavero, Jessie Botterill, Erik Boursier, Adam Brown, Ben and Louisa Brown, Frank and Eva Burbach, Marlene Burston, Charles and Natasha Campbell, Carla Carlisle, Neil and Narisa Chakra Thompson, Alexandre Colliex, Myriam da Costa, Patrice and Mala Cotensin, Monique Couperie, Stéphane Custot, Adrian and Jamie Dicks, Christopher Eykyn, Rebecca Folland, Sarah-Jane Forder, Elena Foster, Colin and Sophie Gleadell, Kirsty Gordon, Catherine Grenier,
Cyrille de Gunzburg, Claude-Bernard Haïm, Nadine Haïm, David Hockney, Waring Hopkins, Richard and Christina Ives, Bill and Janet Jacklin, Peter James, Jeanne Job, Nigel Jones, Sam Keller, Leon Kossoff, Ulf Küster, Andrew Lambirth, Mark and Lucy Lefanu, Magnus Linklater, Bertrand Lorquin, Olivier Lorquin, Nicholas Maclean, Rachel Mannheimer, Juan Marsé, Gillian Malpass, Pierre-Yves Mauguen, Antoine Merlino, Henry and Alison Meyric Hughes, Lucy Mitchell-Innes, Bona Montagu, Serena Morton, Martin and Smita Murphy-Davé, David Nash, Lynn Nesbit, Hughie and Clare O’Donoghue, Francis Outred, Will Paget, Edmund Peel, Ann Peppiatt, David Plante, Renée Price, Robert Priseman, Joan Punyet Miró, Tomaso Radaelli, Simon Rake, Jean-Claude Rivière, Paul Rousseau, Frédéric and Carole de Senarclens, Christopher and Carmel Shirley, Frank and Pauline Slattery, Paul Sloman, Arturo di Stefano, Jon-Ove Steihaug, Ian and Mercedes Stoutzker, Derick Thomas, Thérèse Tigretti Berthoud, Jorge Virgili, Diana Watson, Thomas West, Ortrud Westheider, Thomas Williams, Clive and Catherine Wilson.
Index
Abstract Expressionism, here
action directe, here, here
Aeschylus, here, here
Oresteia, here
Aga Khan, here
Agnelli, Gianni, here
Algerian War, here
Alloway, Lawrence, here, here
Andrews, Michael, here
Antonioni, Michelangelo, here
Apollo, sculptures of, here
Aragon, Louis, here
Art and Literature, here
Art International, here, here, here
re-launched, here, here, here, here, here, here
suspended, here, here
Athenaeum Club, here, here, here
Auden, W. H., here, here, here
Auerbach, Frank, here, here, here, here
Bacon, Francis
acquires Paris studio, here
admiration for the French, here
advertises as companion, here
author’s admiration for, here
as boulevardier, here
capacity for alcohol, here, here
childhood in Ireland, here, here, here, here, here
commissioned portraits, here
deformity and brutality in his paintings, here, here, here
dream of his death, here
dyed hair, here
early years, here, here, here
and George’s death, here, here, here, here
ideas on painting, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here
illness and death, here, here
interest in literature, here
intimate friendships, here
late style and imagery, here, here
and money, here, here, here, here
and number seven, here
and old age, here
physical resilience, here
politics, here, here
radiance, here
relationship with parents, here, here
and religion, here, here
schooldays, here
self-portraits, here, here, here
sexuality, here, here, here, here, here, here
shyness, here
his studio, here
time in Berlin and Paris, here, here, here, here, here
and watches, here, here
Bacon, Francis, WORKS:
Bullfight, here
Jet of Water, here
Large Interior, W11 (after Watteau), here
Leiris portraits, here, here, here
May–June 1974, here
Painting 1946, here
popes, here, here, here, here, here, here
Three Studies of the Male Back, here
Two Figures, here, here
Bacon, Harley, here
Bacon, Ianthe, here, here, here, here
Bacon, Winnie, here, here
Bailey, David, here
Baker, Stanley, here
Balthus, here, here, here, here, here
Barcelona, here, here, here, here
Barnes, Djuna, here
Barral, Carlos, here
Barrault, Jean-Louis, here
Bart, Lionel, here
Baudelaire, Charles, here
BBC World Service, here
Beard, Peter, here
Beaton, Cecil, here
Bébert, here, here
Beckett, Samuel, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here
Belcher, Muriel, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here
see also Colony Room
Berlemont, Gaston, here
Berlin, here, here, here, here, here, here
Bernard, Jeffrey, here
Bertolucci, Bernardo, here
Beston, Valerie, here, here, here, here
and George’s death, here
Bibendum, here, here
Bigeard, General, here
Birkin, Jane, here
Blackwood, Caroline, here
Bletchley Park, here, here
Blow, David, here, here, here, here
family, here
flat in London, here, here, here, here, here, here, here
Bogdanovich, Peter, here
Boileau, Nicolas, here
Borges, Jorge Luis, here, here, here
Botticelli, Sandro, here
Boulevard Saint-Michel, here
Boulez, Pierre, here
Bowles, Paul and Jane, here, here
Brando, Marlon, here
Branson, Richard, here
Braque, Georges, here, here
Brassaï, here
Breton, André, here
le Brocquy, Louis, here
Brompton Cemetery, here
Burroughs, William, here, here, here, here, here
café-bougnat, here, here
Cahiers d’Art, here, here
Caine, Michael, here
Calder, Alexander, here
Calder, John, here
Cambridge Opinion, here, here, here, here
Campbell, Charles, here
Camus, Albert, here
Caravaggio, here
Caro, Anthony, here
Carrier, Robert, here
Cartier-Bresson, Henri, here, here, here
Céline, Louis-Ferdinand, here
Centre Georges Pompidou, here
Cézanne, Paul, here, here
Champs-Elysées, here, here
Charles, Ray, here
Charles-Roux, Edmonde, here
Charlie Chester’s, here
Château du Marais, here, here
Checker, Chubby, here
Chopping, Dickie, here, here, here, here, here
Chuck (wrestler), here
Churchill, Winston, here, here
Claridge’s, here, here, here, here, here
Clayeux, Louis, here
Clouet, Jean, here
Clouzot, Henri-Georges, here
Colony Room, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here
Connaissance des Arts, here, here, here, here, here
Connaught, the, here, here, here
Connoisseur magazine, here
Connolly, Cyril, here, here, here, here, here, here
Conran, Terence, here
Cooper, Douglas, here, here
Corot, Jean-Baptiste-Camille, here
Coupole incident, here, here
Courrèges, André, here
Crillon, the, here, here, here
Crivelli, Carlo, here
Crockford’s, here
Crommelynck, Aldo, here
Dado, here, here
Dalí, Salvador, here, here
Danielle, here, here, here, here
Davenport, John, here
de Gaulle, Charles, here
De Kooning, Willem, here
Deakin, John, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here
author’s first encounters with, here, here, here, here
and Grand Palais exhibition, here, here
marriage, here
and sculpture, here
Dean Close school, here
Defferre, Gaston, here
Degas, Edgar, here, here, here
catalogue raisonné, here
Deleuze, Gilles, here
Deneuve, Catherine, here
Derain, André, here
Devonshire, Duke of, here, here
Diba, Farah, here
Dicks, Adrian, here
Dietrich, Marlene, here
Dubuffet, Jean, here, here, here
Duchamp, Marcel, here, here, here
Dupin, Jacques, here, here, here
Duras, Marguerite, here, here
Duthuit, Claude, here
Dyer, George, here, here, here, here, here, here, here
criminal tendencies and contacts, here, here, here
death, here, here, here, here, here, here
deformity in paintings, here, here, here
and drugs scandal, here
first meeting with Bacon, here
and Galerie Maeght exhibition, here
and Grand Palais exhibition, here, here, here, here
Grand Véfour dinner, here, here, here
in Marlborough Gallery paintings, here, here
paintings after his death, here, here, here, here
sexuality, here
and Sheekey’s eel broth, here, here
and sleeping pills, here, here, here, here
and Two Figures, here, here
Ede, Jim, here
Edwards, John, here, here, here, here
Eisenstein, Sergei, here
Eli (Art International factotum), here, here, here, here
Eliot, T. S., here, here, here, here, here
Eluard, Paul, here
Emaer, Fabrice, here
L’Ephémère, here
Ernst, Max, here
Evening Standard, here, here
Expressionism, here, here, here
see also Abstract Expressionism; German Expressionism
Farson, Dan, here, here, here
Fernando (bodyguard), here
Ferrater, Gabriel, here
Fitzsimmons, Jim, here
Fitzwilliam Museum, here
Francis Bacon in Your Blood Page 42