“I have always been very moved by pictures about slaughterhouses and meat,” the painter Francis Bacon said to an interviewer in 1962. He regarded meat with fellow-feeling. “If I go into a butcher’s shop, I always think it’s surprising that I wasn’t there instead of the animal,” he later said. We have a photograph of him gazing serenely out at us from between two sides of beef. Cloven carcasses—indeed, piles of miscellaneous innards—recur in his paintings. Basically, he liked whatever was inside, as opposed to outside, the skin.
His favorite body part was the mouth. Once, in a bookshop in Paris, he found an old medical treatise on diseases of the oral cavity. The book had beautiful hand-colored plates, showing what Bacon called the “glitter and color” of the inside of the mouth, the glistening membranes. He bought the book and cherished it all his life. He said that he always hoped he could paint the mouth as Monet had painted sunsets.
The moment that the mouth showed its insides most unashamedly, Bacon realized, was when it screamed. In his studio, he kept a still of the Odessa Steps massacre from Eisenstein’s “Battleship Potemkin”: an old woman, gashed in the face by one of the imperial soldiers, screams violently, her shattered pince-nez hanging from her eyes and blood coursing down her cheek. When Bacon saw Old Master paintings of the Crucifixion—he especially loved Matthias Grünewald’s Isenheim Altarpiece, with Jesus almost rotting on the Cross—they lined up in his mind with the meat and the screams.
All of this went into Bacon’s work. In his “Head I” (1947-48), now in the Metropolitan Museum, in New York, we see a head sliced off just below the nose. The mouth is open, screaming, and the teeth are a mess. Bacon included that picture in his first major one-man show, in 1949, in London. The critics had a field day at this exhibition. They told their readers that if they went they would see “a tardily evolved creature which had slithered out from below a large stone that had been in a noisome cellar for a century or two.” Wyndham Lewis described “shouting creatures in glass cases, . . . dissolving ganglia.”
Yet the ganglia were interesting, Lewis found: “Bacon is one of the most powerful artists in Europe today.” Likewise, the critic of the Sunday Times. While “nothing would induce me to buy one of Bacon’s paintings,” he wrote, “a representative collection that did not contain one would lack one of the most definite and articulate statements made by contemporary art.” In fact, curators and collectors were not initially eager to buy: how could you hang something so unpleasant on your wall? Bacon caught on in France faster than he did in England or the United States, but eventually he caught on everywhere. For the opening of a 1977 show in Paris, so many people showed up that the police had to close off the street. “You are the Marilyn Monroe of modern art,” a French minister said to Bacon that night. During the few decades before his death, in 1992, his celebrity doubled and redoubled, and it has gone on growing since. In 2013, his triptych portrait of Lucian Freud set what was then a world record for an art work sold at auction—more than a hundred and forty-two million dollars.
Many books have been published on Bacon since his death, but now he has been accorded the Big Biography treatment, “Francis Bacon: Revelations” (Knopf), by the husband-and-wife team Mark Stevens and Annalyn Swan—he a former art critic for New York, she a former arts editor for Newsweek. The pair won a Pulitzer for their 2004 biography of Willem de Kooning, and the new book is a comparable achievement. It is enormously detailed; we get the details, and the details’ details. When some friends come to visit Bacon in Monte Carlo and go off on a side trip without him, we hear about their side trip. When he pays for his brother-in-law’s funeral, we learn how much the bill came to. We’re told about the business of art—prices, taxes, exhibitions, catalogues, catalogue essays, shop talk that many art books are too high-minded to get into. Such exhaustiveness can be deadening, but here, for the most part, it isn’t. Swan and Stevens are very good storytellers. Also, the book is warmed by the writers’ clear affection for Bacon. They enjoy his boozy nights with him, they laugh at his jokes, and they admire his bloody-mindedness. They do not believe everything he said, and they let us know this, but they are always in his corner, and they stress virtues of his that we wouldn’t have known to look for: his gregariousness, his love of fun, his erudition, his extreme generosity. However many people were at the table, he always picked up the tab.
Bacon was born in Dublin in 1909, into an English family that might have preferred a different sort of boy. His father, Eddy, had been an Army man, serving in Burma and South Africa and retiring in 1903 with the honorary rank of major. By the time Francis arrived, Eddy was a gentleman horse trainer. He didn’t earn any money, but that wasn’t a problem. His wife, Winifred, from a Sheffield steel family, had come with a considerable dowry. Francis, shy, girly, and asthmatic, was a poor fit for Eddy’s idea of what a son of his should be. Eddy tried to straighten him out. He got the grooms in his stables to thrash the boy regularly, but this didn’t change him, or not in the direction that Eddy intended. If we are to believe what Francis later suggested, the stablemen, when they got tired of beating him, liked to sodomize him. If this is true, it presumably nurtured his lifelong association of sexual pleasure with physical punishment, and with men.
Homosexuality was hardly unknown in Francis’s world—many of the young men of his class were probably bisexual, if only by virtue of having attended all-boys schools—but a firm intent, in an adult male, to confine his sexual relations to men was widely regarded as disgusting. Until 1967, homosexual acts were illegal in Britain, and subject to harsh punishment. George V, upon being informed that someone he knew was homosexual, is reported to have said, “I thought men like that shot themselves.” When Eddy happened upon the sixteen-year-old Francis dressed only in his mother’s underwear, he threw him out, Bacon later said. The banishment was not entirely brutal. Winifred gave Francis an allowance of three pounds a week, enough to live on in London, where he landed, taking odd jobs—cook, house cleaner, dress-shop assistant.
Soon afterward, Eddy, still hoping to make a man out of his disappointing son, suggested that Francis accompany a cousin of theirs, a certain Cecil Harcourt-Smith, ten years older than Francis—a fine young man, Eddy thought, from a fine family—on a trip to Berlin. Harcourt-Smith collected Francis, took him to Germany, and introduced him to all the raunchiest sex clubs of Weimar Berlin. And then? Bacon was never willing to say, on the record, but he seems to have confided in his friend John Richardson, the future Picasso biographer, who reported that Harcourt-Smith was an “ultra-sadistic sadist” and, according to Bacon, a man who “fucked absolutely anything.” Whatever Francis may have learned from his father’s grooms was enlarged by this postgraduate education. After a couple of months, Harcourt-Smith tired of Francis and took off with a woman.
Abandoned, Francis was somehow not discouraged. He knew little of the world. He had been to school for only a year and a half. (He kept running away from the place, until, he said, his parents finally gave up and let him stay home.) But he’d surely heard that Paris was the capital of the European avant-garde, and he headed there, learning the language, making friends and seeing, for the first time, art shows, art books, and art magazines. He encountered Picasso’s work and was stunned. “At that moment I thought, well I will try and paint too,” he recalled. He went to a few group classes—the only art education he ever had.
At the end of 1928, Bacon returned to London, which remained his headquarters, more or less, for the rest of his life. For a while, he tried to start a career in furniture design. But slowly, fitfully, he inched his way toward painting.
Bacon as a young man had a face like an angel, together with beautiful manners and a ready wit. He had some bad habits, but they were of the regular, walk-on-the-wild-side variety. He enjoyed the company of sailors and petty thieves. When he was hard up, he didn’t mind doing a bit of escort work. As an adult, he was drunk most nights, and in the course of his revels he offended a fair number of people. Come morning, however, they could expect to find on their doorstep a note of apology and a bunch of roses.
He was a kind, loyal, and generous friend. A good example of this was his treatment of his childhood nanny, Jessie Lightfoot. When he moved to London, he took Nanny Lightfoot with him. (What? You’re British, and you move to London with no money, and you don’t have your nanny with you? Suppose you’re drunk and can’t get upstairs?) When he was young and poor and scrounging for a living, she would shoplift groceries for them. She scanned the newspapers to find personals from wealthy older men seeking a young companion. “Well, Francis, look here. . . . ” she would say, when she found a good prospect. Later, when he held illegal roulette parties in his apartment, it was she who collected the fees for use of the bathroom. By the time Nanny Lightfoot died, in 1951, she and Francis had lived together for twenty-odd years. It broke his heart that her end came when he was out of town. Every week, for years afterward, he visited the friend of hers who had looked after her in her final days.
Bacon was included in a few group shows in London in the mid-thirties, but, insulted by the reviews, he destroyed most of what he had made. When the Second World War began, he was excused from military service on account of his asthma. (Reportedly, he hired a German shepherd to stay with him the night before the medical examination, to exacerbate his condition.) He then worked for the Red Cross and Air Raid Precautions, a program that helped protect Londoners during the Blitz, but the dust from the bombardments eventually irritated his lungs to the point where he had to leave the city.
Toward the end of the war, Bacon seems to have felt the forces in his life, as in the world, converge, and in 1944 he painted a triptych that he called “Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion.” The figures in question were not those one ordinarily saw in paintings of the Crucifixion. There was no Madonna in her blue cloak, no Mary Magdalene in red, but, rather, three Furies from Aeschylus’ Oresteia, gray-white creatures, monstrously truncated, looming from a livid orange background. In the left panel is a shrouded figure, its face ominously turned away. The creature in the middle panel is an ovoid shape, seemingly trapped in the corner of a room. Its long neck sticks out to the side, terminating not in a head, exactly, but just an open mouth, with two rows of threatening teeth, and a dripping bandage where its eyes might be. In the right-hand panel is the most horrible figure. Vaguely female, she rises from a patch of spiky grass, long neck thrust forward. Her mouth, too, is open—she is ready to eat us—but, apart from the one leg and also one ear, that is all Bacon gives us of her.
This piece may be the most disturbing painting produced in Britain in the twentieth century. Executed when Bacon was thirty-four, it was the first one, apparently, that truly satisfied him. In any case, he did not destroy it. Eric Hall, his respectable older boyfriend at the time, bought it before it could be exhibited. (Hall later donated it to the Tate, Britain’s national showplace for modern painting, where it hangs, doubtless scaring the pants off anyone who passes by.) With this picture, Bacon said, “I began.” That is, he had found his artistic core—a reigning emotion of suffering and menace. The discovery was influential. “There was painting in England before the Three Studies, and painting in England after them,” the critic John Russell later wrote. “No one can confuse the two.” Damien Hirst, who often cites Bacon as a hero, has observed, of a different Bacon Crucifixion, “That splat over the head of the brush is definitely like brains.” This is probably the first time that the color of brain matter has been discussed in relation to the Crucifixion.
Why, in a period when abstraction was the going thing in Western painting, did Bacon insist on doing figurative painting? It’s worth remembering that British art, relative to its Continental neighbors, had long been conservative. Years after Picasso produced “Les Demoiselles d’Avignon,” Bloomsbury artists were still doing pictures of one another sitting in their tastefully furnished parlors. The Tate didn’t acquire its first Picasso until 1933, and the piece was from 1901, a nice picture of a vase of flowers. When Bacon was coming up, probably the most respected painter in England was Graham Sutherland, who made his reputation with landscapes and then with portraits. Lucian Freud, Bacon’s foremost competitor—and, for many years, his best friend—was a portraitist, too.
But national trends can’t fully explain Bacon. For all his intelligence, he was an instinctual artist, and he couldn’t really operate without the human figure. It was always before his eyes. If, when discussing his forebears, he wasn’t talking about Velázquez, he was talking about Grünewald or Rembrandt or Degas. The human body—the face, the joints, the armpits, the angles of the spine—spoke to him, told him the story he wanted to hear, and make us hear. When describing to interviewers what he was aiming for, he often used the language of physiology. He said that he wanted his images to strike the viewer’s “nervous system.” (He had a diagram of the human nervous system pinned on his studio wall.) He wanted, he said, to “unlock the valves of feeling.” Again and again, he used the word “poignant”—not in the sense of “sad” but in the archaic, concrete sense of “piercing,” and thereby making one’s opponent bleed. Bacon wanted to make us bleed, and in order to do so he had to show us the thing that bleeds, the body.
Some of his early viewers, pledged to abstraction, saw him as a purely figurative painter and therefore old-fashioned. Indeed, because his work was so often gruesome he was not just figurative but Grand Guignol, they said: a shock jock. Others grouped him with German Post-Expressionists of the New Objectivity school, such as Otto Dix and Christian Schad, an association Bacon indignantly rejected. Nothing was further from his intentions than the objective representation of reality, which he called “illustration,” or, God forbid, “narrative,” the mobilization of such representation for a story.
Some critics, sensing this, took the position that Bacon was both figurative and abstract, and that the power of his art derived from the tension between the two sources. Bacon sometimes gave a tentative nod to that position, but he was insistent that, however distorted his figures, he was not an abstractionist. (Most artists believe that they are sui generis, and, above all, that they are not part of the big new craze. In the fifties, when Bacon came to prominence, the American abstractionists were the new craze. Bacon said that Jackson Pollock’s drip paintings looked to him like “old lace.”) Bacon wanted his work to convey human emotions, but not unambiguously. He said, “I would like my pictures to look as if a human being had passed between them, like a snail, leaving a trail of the human presence and memory trace of past events as the snail leaves its slime.” This is oblique, but not a bad description. You are drawn in, then repelled, then drawn in, then repelled.
Bacon spoke about his paintings with honesty and intelligence. There is a book, “Interviews with Francis Bacon,” of the conversations he had with the art critic David Sylvester, who was also a friend, between 1962 and 1986. Sylvester asks the most important questions: Why did Bacon so often destroy his early paintings? Why, a firm atheist, did he paint the Crucifixion again and again? Why did he obsessively paint meat? What was it with him and meat?
Almost better than reading these exchanges is looking at them, which you can do on YouTube. Sylvester asks his questions, and Bacon, looking him straight in the eye, answers him directly. Yes, he says. No, he says. Well, he says, what interested me about meat was . . . Artists don’t owe us explanations of their art, and many aren’t able to provide them, but it’s nice to hear someone, now and then, who actually makes the effort.
Bacon went on to paint many more triptychs, including a lot of Crucifixions. Beginning in the nineteen-fifties, he also produced many paintings inspired by Velázquez’s famous “Portrait of Pope Innocent X,” but with the Pontiff’s commanding face often contorted in a scream. In the sixties, Bacon concentrated on portraits. But almost all of these pictures partake, in some measure, of the same wrenching emotion as the “Three Studies.” It had been with Bacon for a long time.
He came from a rough world, however moneyed. Being beaten and possibly raped by his father’s grooms as a boy is shocking enough, but casual violence seems to have been taken for granted in the family. Bacon’s father was given to terrible rages, and his grandmother was married to a man who, on the morning of a hunt, would catch cats, cut off their claws, and throw them to his hounds, to pique a taste for blood. When he was drunk, he would also kill cats by hanging them. Then, too, the family lived among Irish Catholics who hated Anglo-Irish people like them. They always feared a knock on the door from the I.R.A. Bacon’s mother refused to sit with her back to a window at night.
Stevens and Swan view the violence of Bacon’s painting as a direct result of his childhood: “Some volatile sexual compound—father, groom, animal, discipline—gave Francis a physical jolt that helped make him into the painter Francis Bacon.” That seems to me too direct, too sure, and too sexual. Still, the world of Francis’s childhood was a dangerous one, and the authors are probably right to take its influence on Bacon’s iconography seriously. As Bacon said, “Time doesn’t heal,” and his preoccupation with violence was unquestionably deep. Once, when he was sick, a neighbor checked in on him and went into his bedroom, ordinarily off limits. On the wall opposite the door was a vast mural of a crucified arm, she recalled: “Just a hint of torso and an enormous arm with nails in it.”
The lacerating intensity of the emotions in Bacon’s work can be felt in his destruction of his paintings. By the time he was nearing forty, Time reported that he had slashed apart some seven hundred canvases. It was when a painting came close to completion, he said, that the trouble started. Sometimes he was elated by what he saw on his easel and wanted to push it further and then ended up spoiling the piece. At other times, he would let the painting get as far as the gallery; then he would call and ask for it back, and mess it up. His main handler at the gallery, a shrewd and kind woman named Valerie Beston, became adept at sensing when he was finished with a piece. No sooner had the two of them got off the phone than she would appear at his front door in a gallery van and proceed to distract Bacon with tea and gossip while the driver quietly took the piece away.
Many of Bacon’s early commentators were shocked not just by the gruesomeness of his work but also by its seeming lack of moral purpose. He himself disavowed any such purpose. A number of writers felt that he was actually mocking their postwar gloom. The influential critic John Berger wrote that although Bacon was a remarkable painter, he was not, finally, “important,” because he was too egocentric to address the moral problems of the postwar world: “If Bacon’s paintings began to deal with any of the real tragedy of our time, they would shriek less, they would be less jealous of their horror, and they would never hypnotize us, because we, with all conscience stirred, would be too much involved to afford that luxury.”
Remarks like Berger’s were probably a response to Bacon’s life as well as to his art. He was not a discreet man, bless him, and his daily routine was widely known. He woke up at dawn and was at the easel by about 6 A.M. If things went well, or fairly well, he painted until midday. Then he put on his makeup (he wore lipstick and pancake makeup and touched up his hair, including his carefully positioned spit curl, with shoe polish), and went out and had a big lunch at one of the Soho bars that served him not just as drinking establishments but also, with their louche clientele—drunks, slackers, hoodlums, gay people—as social clubs. Then he was back at the bar, where he drank pretty much till he dropped. (When he was young and short of funds, the proprietress of his favorite bar, the Colony Room, gave him ten pounds a week and free drinks to bring his friends in, which he did.) Sometimes, before resuming drinking, he had sex. For that, he liked the afternoon best.
Who did he have sex with? In his early years, there were relationships with older men who loved him for his charm and his talent, and didn’t mind supporting him, but that phase ended eventually. Around 1952, he met the person who was probably the love of his life, Peter Lacy. Lacy was a handsome and dashing man from a prosperous family with Irish connections, like Bacon’s. He had been in the R.A.F., but only as a test pilot; he was a pianist, though only in piano bars. Like Bacon, he was a far-gone alcoholic, but further gone. And he was a mean drunk. He frightened people. Bacon said that, at gatherings, other guests would ask him, “ ‘Who is that awful man you’re with?’ and of course I had to say, ‘Well, I don’t really know.’ ” Lacy frightened Bacon as well. As Swan and Stevens tell it, Bacon would provoke Lacy until Lacy turned on him, beat him up, and then took him by force. At one point, he threw Bacon out of a window, an experience that the artist, relaxed by drink, somehow survived. When doing his makeup, Bacon made no effort to hide the bruises that Lacy had left on his face.
There is a painting by Bacon, “Two Figures,” from 1953, soon after the couple met, that shows two men in a desperate-looking embrace, one on top of the other. Although the work drew on an Eadweard Muybridge photograph of two wrestlers, it is widely interpreted to be a portrait of Bacon and Lacy in bed. (Lucian Freud bought the painting shortly after it was finished, hung it above his own bed for decades, and resolutely refused to part with it for later shows of Bacon’s work.) It has been described as tender; no one seems to mention the sharp teeth displayed by the man underneath. For much of the nineteen-fifties, Bacon and Lacy tried to be together. Then they tried to be apart. Lacy’s alcoholism got worse. Bacon began taking amphetamines. Lacy, who had inherited money from his father, moved to Tangier. Bacon followed him, even renting his own place there. Eventually, though, the two men gave up and stopped seeing each other.
In 1962, Bacon had a retrospective at the Tate, the most important show of his life thus far, which would confirm him as one of England’s foremost painters—perhaps even the foremost. The day it opened, Bacon sent Peter Lacy a telegram about the show’s success. The telegram that came back said that Lacy had died the day before. In Tangier, he had finally drunk more than a person can drink and stay alive. As Bacon later put it, his pancreas had exploded.
The following year, it is said, Bacon one day heard a terrible crash in his studio. A burglar had fallen through the skylight, and the painter, discovering the young intruder, ordered him into the bedroom. The two men were together for the next eight years. The story became famous—it appears at the start of the 1998 bio-pic “Love Is the Devil”—though it was widely contested by people close to Bacon, who said, sorry, the two men just met in a bar, like everybody else. The new man, George Dyer, really was a burglar, though, and, like Lacy, a sort of dropout. Unlike Lacy, however, Dyer did not have much in common with Bacon. More than twenty years younger, he was an East Ender with a thick Cockney accent, and he was not the only criminal in his family. According to a friend of Bacon’s, he wasn’t even primarily homosexual. He just knew how to be accommodating; he had learned that in prison.
In the beginning, Bacon loved just to look at George, with his wonderfully muscled forearms and his commanding nose. If you saw that nose in a Bacon painting, you knew you were looking at George. Indeed, it is said that the artist’s turn to portraiture in the nineteen-sixties was due, in large measure, to his having George to paint. (He did more than twenty portraits of the man.) Bacon also appreciated Dyer’s ability to sit in a chair in his underpants for hours on end and just pose, without fidgeting, or distracting Bacon with conversation.
That was, in part, because George had no conversation. He was innocent. It was something of a tradition, in London’s gay pickup world, that in the morning the younger man stole the older man’s watch, the heavier and more expensive the better. Dyer, after he and Bacon first slept together, instead left him the gold watch he had stolen from the man with whom he had spent the previous night. Such things touched Bacon’s heart. He liked to spoil Dyer. He paid him a salary, sixty pounds a month, for posing and doing handyman work. He also gave him money to buy a lot of expensive Edwardian-style clothes, which George was very proud of.
And then Bacon tired of him. If Bacon was drunk every night, George was drunk every day and every night, which gradually made him impotent and prone to wet his pants on people’s couches. Bacon began to wish he could unload him, a fact that did not fail to register with George. In response, George threw Bacon’s furniture down the front stairs. Later, he ripped up a number of Bacon’s paintings and set fire to his studio. He planted drugs in the studio and called the police. The court case dragged on for months.
In 1971, Bacon had a retrospective at the Grand Palais, in Paris. Nothing could have been more important for his reputation. The day before the opening, Bacon came back from a lunch and found George, who had accompanied him to Paris, drunk and incoherent, in bed with a rent boy. He eventually went downstairs, to the room occupied by the gallery’s driver, and slept in the spare bed there. In the morning, he asked the driver to look in on George. On the way upstairs, the driver ran into Valerie Beston, Bacon’s heroic handler. They found George on the toilet, leaning forward, apparently dead.
So, in a sort of appalling rhyme with Lacy’s death, Bacon received similar news on the cusp of another great triumph. If I read Stevens and Swan correctly, Bacon was both stolid (he may even have been relieved) and devastated. The hotel manager was summoned, and the situation was explained to him. Would it be possible to defer George’s death until the next morning? he was asked. Otherwise, his death would overshadow the opening. The manager, evidently the soul of discretion, agreed and locked the room with dead George inside, still on the toilet. Bacon got through the festivities—the private view, the official opening, the red carpet, the honor guard—with aplomb. Then the authorities came and took George’s body away, and the newspapers published the news. Bacon flew back to London, but he was never the same. The French autopsy determined that George had died of a heart attack, but people who knew him—including, eventually, Bacon—assumed that he had died, accidentally or deliberately, of an overdose of alcohol and pills. He had made previous suicide attempts.
In the next two years, Bacon painted four triptychs that dealt with George’s death. The first three show George in various guises. The last—“Triptych, May-June 1973”—is more confessional and more sensational. Here we are shown the actual death. In the left panel, we see George naked, on the toilet, leaning forward, almost to the floor. On the right, we see him vomiting into the sink. And in the central panel, where the Christ would go if this were a Crucifixion (which, in a way, it is), we get just George’s face, bloated and bloodshot, presumably dead. In all the postmortem-George triptychs, Bacon uses looming shadows. We seem to watch George spilling over, leaking his life onto the floor. But, in the central panel of this last triptych, there is something yet more horrible. A shadow comes to greet George that is like nothing we have seen before: huge, black, like an enormous bird.
Many people would nominate “Triptych, May-June 1973,” with its narration of George’s death, as Bacon’s most formidable painting, because it is so bluntly what his work is said to be: horrific. But I would pick the series of canvases—there are something like fifty of them—that he based on Velázquez’s “Portrait of Pope Innocent X.” In them, the Holy Father is shown in full papal regalia: cape, cap, lace-trimmed cassock. (In some versions, you can even see the throne.) And then, in place of the calm, even crafty face that Velázquez gave the seventeenth-century Pontiff, we see a screaming mouth, with a full set of sharp, vicious teeth. This is Bacon’s familiar hybrid of menace and suffering, expanded now by a mixture of shock and formality. You can see this mixture in the George Dyer triptychs, too, but there it is more studied; Bacon is working something out, getting George’s death out of his system, as he himself acknowledged. In the Popes, on the other hand, the terrible thing seems to come from nowhere, both controlled and spontaneous, ineluctable. You could be the Pope and not be able to stop it.
When Bacon was about forty, his doctor told him that if he had one more drink he would die. In fact, he lived another forty years, drinking just as much as before, and therefore was around long enough to have a “late period.” It is sometimes painful to watch. He still painted, but he had to have oxygen cannisters near him at all times in case he had an asthma attack. His fame was assured. Honors rained down on him, but now he often refused them. French intellectuals—Michel Leiris, Gilles Deleuze—had written books about him and he was proud of this, but now he shooed book writers away. He also stubbornly delayed the production of a catalogue raisonné. Many of his old friends died. Many others he avoided, including Lucian Freud. (In the words of a friend of Freud’s, “Lucian took the view that Francis’s late paintings were frightfully bad. Bacon was saying the same thing about Lucian. ‘Such a pity he doesn’t go on doing his little things.’ ”) Old pleasures, too, were lost. He had a boyfriend, but the boyfriend also had a boyfriend.
Yet the spark that had always been in him still flared up sporadically. He himself spoke of the “exhilarated despair” that underlay his paintings, accurate words to describe the sheer vigor—you could even call it delight—with which he produced his grim visions. The Pope might be screaming, but, oh, that purple and gold, and even the wit, or at least surprise, of the painting. You’re not the only one screaming about life; so is the Pope.
In 1991, during a trip to Madrid, Bacon decided that he had to see the collection of Velázquez paintings at the Prado, and to do so alone. He telephoned Manuela Mena, a senior conservator at the museum, and asked if he might come on a day when the museum was closed. This was hard to arrange—the guards were on strike—but Mena worked it out, and told him to knock on a little-used side door, next to the Botanical Gardens, at the appointed hour. She later recalled, “We opened that door for him at midday, and in with the sun came Francis Bacon.”
He was back in Madrid the following year. Eighty-two and dying, he nevertheless had a nice Spanish companion, and, in the last photograph of him that Swan and Stevens offer us, we see him at his favorite bar, sitting there with what looks like a quart-size Martini in front of him. He seems hearty; he wasn’t. Within a few days, his friend had to check him into a hospital. The supervising nurse said that he was starting to suffer from “slow suffocation.” Soon his breathing stopped, and then his heart—meat at last. ♦
