Francis Bacon in Your Blood

by Michael Peppiatt

  ‘Are those reviews about Francis?’ I ask.

  ‘We keep a complete archive of everything that’s been written about Francis and all the press cuttings where he’s mentioned,’ she says, as if slightly resenting my curiosity.

  This is a shrine to Francis, I realize. The sacred fire is tended here, and in however unlikely a guise Miss Beston serves as his vestal virgin. She is in love with him, as George is, as Muriel is, as Lucian is and as – however grotesque the notion – David Sylvester is. And perhaps, no less grotesquely, as I am.

  So here’s the weird thing. We are all Francis’s vestal virgins tending to the sacred flame, yet none of us appears to know what is really going on. Lucian claims that Francis is ‘the wildest and the wisest man’ he has ever known. That’s a good start, but it doesn’t exactly explain anything. In fact, we all repeat the formulae of the maestro as if we belonged to some superior claque. What is really going on, I long to ask Miss Beston, what does it all mean, but I think she is still committed to her Bletchley codes and will not be giving any secrets out, although I am struck by a throwaway remark of hers as we chat. ‘I can’t think of a worse fate’, she suddenly suggests, apropos of nothing, ‘than being loved by Francis.’ For a moment the phrase lies, tantalizingly unexplained, in the air between us. Then Bletchley comes back, and Francis is officially limited to capturing George and beautiful bluey-greens.

  ‘I will send you all the ektachromes you need to choose for your article,’ Miss B. says, winding up our rendezvous. ‘I know Francis is very pleased you will be writing about the new pictures. We all look forward to seeing the piece when it comes out.’

  The Tregunter Road days are over. No guffins lurk in the basement any longer ready to welcome me back and offer me my old bedroom. My friends have moved on, Magnus to the Evening Standard to write for the ‘Londoner’s Diary’, Peter to work with a fashion photographer, travelling the world to photograph ravishing, topless models on pristine beaches. Art International has provided my airfare but no living expenses, so a hotel is out of the question. In any case, staying in a hotel in my own town would be a kind of admission that I have no friends. Luckily one of my closest old contemporaries from Cambridge, David Blow, is back from what sounds like an exotic posting at the British Institute of Persian Studies in Tehran and he has taken a handsome flat in a substantial redbrick building in Knightsbridge. I think the style is called Pont Street Dutch and it’s a definite step up from Fulham, because I am staying in the room at the front, overlooking the gardens, which is the size of a ballroom and has a very comfortable sofa. David says I can sleep there and stay as long as I want, so I’ve already placed my few belongings neatly round the sofa, demarcating my terrain. One incongruous item is a large, shiny brown handbag that Mary McCarthy, the American writer who is now living in Paris with her latest husband, a diplomat called Mr West, has commandeered me to take to Sonia Orwell. I haven’t been given the details, but the bag looks too used to be a gift, so I suppose Sonia must have left it behind, perhaps after too many drinks at the Wests’ apartment, which is grand enough to feel like an official residence, on the rue de Rennes. I feel like some tiny envoy shuttling between two powerful female states, and I know there is some friction between them. After just an hour with the hard-eyed American writer, however, I have little doubt that she would always worst Sonia, who is vulnerable beneath all her bluster and probably acutely conscious that Mary has a literary reputation and she has not. I’ve called Sonia to let her know I’ve got the bag and she’s asked me to bring it round this evening before I go on to meet Francis at the Connaught.

  One of several nice things about being back in London is that I will be plucked out of obscurity and relative penury for a few days. I never starve in Paris but I have to eat cheaply and limit meals out to student standbys and basic Vietnamese. Making a living out of writing freelance for art magazines will never put much butter on the spinach, as the French say, particularly when the pounds I earn drop vis-à-vis the franc, but it doesn’t much worry me because I have the luxury of being my own master. I often feel a bit threadbare, though, and I have to admit to an occasional twinge of envy when I see young men my age, whether here or in Paris, stepping out in smart suits or leather jackets. I suppose if I did have a lot of clothes I’d now be dithering as to what to wear to go to a grand hotel, and I grant myself that advantage as I get back into the old grey roll-neck and dark-blue jacket, once I have emptied it of used Métro tickets, a crumpled Gitanes packet, some scruffy notes wedged beneath a biro top and a few 20 centimes coins.

  Sonia’s house on the Gloucester Road looks much more homely than I remember it, as I stand, handbag embarrassingly in one hand and umbrella in the other, looking up at the cracks running down the shabby façade. I’m also a bit taken aback when Sonia opens the door in an old pink housecoat with her hair all over the place and a confused expression.

  ‘Oh it’s you,’ she says. ‘I thought you were coming tomorrow. Anyway, now you’re here, you’d better come in.’

  I hand over the bag and follow her into the kitchen, which looks as if she’s given a dinner party the previous evening and hasn’t managed to clear the dishes away.

  ‘It’s such a mess in here,’ she says in an aggressive voice. ‘But then my life’s such a mess anyhow. I’ve fucked up my life, you know. Just fucked it up. We’d better have a drink.’

  There are several bottles of Côtes du Rhône open. Sonia takes one, fills a large glass for me and tops up her own.

  ‘Do you want me to give you a hand clearing up?’ I venture, hoping this won’t remind her of our previous dalliance over the dishes. This is hardly turning out to be the smooth, sophisticated soirée I’d imagined.

  ‘No, just leave it. It’ll get done, everything gets done in the end,’ Sonia says, emptying her glass emphatically. ‘That’s part of the trouble. Anyway, what brings you to London?’

  ‘I’ve been asked to write an essay on Francis’s new paintings,’ I announce, pleased to have such an impeccable reason for once for being anywhere.

  ‘Who’s it for?’ Sonia demands.

  ‘Art International.’

  ‘Never heard of them,’ Sonia says, shaking her head dismissively. ‘So what are you going to say that all the others haven’t already said? I suppose you know’, she adds sharply, ‘that Michel Leiris is writing a real essay about Francis.’

  ‘I’m not sure yet,’ I say. ‘I expect I’ll find something. After all the paintings are very powerful and I have talked to Francis a great deal, as you know, and I’ve been noting everything down.’

  ‘We were talking about you just the other day,’ Sonia says, using both hands to fill our glasses carefully. ‘Francis said he was looking forward to seeing you. And then he said he had no idea who your grandfather was.’

  ‘What an odd thing for Francis to say,’ I remark with a laugh.

  ‘Yes, it is an odd thing for Francis to say,’ Sonia concedes, softening a little. She runs one hand through her hair and suddenly stares hard, as if trying to remember something, into the middle distance.

  We have one more drink, but when I leave, it’s as if I hadn’t even been there.

  I’m still early when I get to the Connaught. I imagined myself drifting inconspicuously into the bar but the concierge insists I put on a tie from the box he keeps specially, and now, even though I chose the most sober one, I feel I stick out a mile with it tied conspicuously round my polo-neck. The bar has a club-like feel with dark panelling and leather armchairs but you’re left in no doubt that it’s a club for the wealthy and powerful. There are a few other people having drinks and talking confidentially as I slip behind a table for two and tell the waiter I won’t order until my friend arrives. There’s some polite laughter just behind my back, which makes me feel increasingly uneasy.

  Then I hear someone say:

  ‘Well, what about a Mantegna? Surely you’d like a Mantegna?’

  ‘I might hesitate over a Masaccio but I could hardly say
no to a Mantegna, could I?’ a slightly accented, richly indulgent voice replies.

  ‘Well, we must find you something you’d really like, mustn’t we?’ says the first voice. ‘After all, that’s our job. That’s what we do.’

  I half turn my head and see a group of middle-aged men in dark suits smiling knowingly at each other.

  Then I notice Francis making his way through the tables. He looks pink and genial, and I sense he may have spent the afternoon buying everyone champagne at Muriel’s. He gives a brief smile to the group behind, then sits down opposite me.

  ‘Have I kept you waiting, Michael?’ he asks, looking pointedly at the thin gold watch on his wrist. Somebody when I was still living in London told me that Francis flaunted his expensive-looking watches as a come-on when he was cruising in search of rough trade.

  ‘No, I was early, Francis,’ I say. ‘I’ve just come from seeing Sonia.’

  ‘Ah, how was she?’ he asks. ‘She does get terribly depressed, but then I don’t think she’s what’s called ever been really happy in her whole life. As you know, Cyril Connolly once said to me, “The very idea of Sonia being happy is obscene.” Well, I don’t know about that but the thing is that she’s always wanted to write but she’s never been able to make anything of it. So when Horizon closed down she helped launch a magazine called Art and Literature, and of course that didn’t last. Those things never do. She’s also tried doing translations and I think that has worked a bit for her, but she still thinks she should have achieved more. I don’t really see why when she’s been able to create a kind of salon in her house where all kinds of writers and painters and so on can meet. I think that in itself is an achievement.’

  The group behind us gets up to leave, still laughing cordially among themselves.

  ‘Who are they?’ I ask Francis quietly.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ says Francis, ‘but I think one of them is that art collector they call Heini Thyssen.’

  ‘One of the others was suggesting he buy a picture by Mantegna,’ I say, pleased to be passing on a piece of choice gossip.

  ‘I’m sure he was,’ Francis says. ‘They’d be only too happy to sell him whatever they could and make a huge profit on it. The others must have been picture dealers, gathering round him like vultures. All dealers are crooks, as I’m sure you know. Somebody said to me the other day about some dealer, he can’t be a crook he’s an Hon. And I said, I’m afraid the Hons are quite as bad, in fact the Hons are usually the worst of the whole bunch. I know my gallery is only there to try to make money out of me. They do fuck all otherwise. But at the same time I do think that Frank Lloyd has a really good eye. He can actually see painting, which most people can’t. I mean I suppose David Sylvester can, but only once you’ve told him what to look for and then of course he stares at it for hours. Frank Lloyd has it naturally, although he’s not really interested in it. He’s only interested in making money, of course, which he’s brilliant at. So in the end I prefer to have a successful crook selling my pictures than an unsuccessful one. Though whether my things will go on selling at all is another question. I’ve been very lucky to make a living out of something that obsesses me. Of course most people simply loathe the work. But that’s another story. Ah, I think they’re asking us to go in.’

  ‘I’ve managed to get you your usual table, Mr Bacon,’ the maître d’hôtel says discreetly.

  ‘That’s absolutely marvellous, Antonio,’ Francis says, pushing a banknote into his hand. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’

  We are escorted to the table, have the chairs pulled back for us and the napkins delicately unfurled over our laps.

  ‘I must say I really love these luxury hotels,’ says Francis, beaming broadly round the dining room. ‘At least every now and then it is terribly nice to have everything laid on for you. I think if you lived in luxury every day the boredom would be ghastly. What I like is the distance between luxury and poverty, it’s much more interesting to drift between the two in the kind of gilded squalor I live in. Now what do you think you’d like, Michael?’

  I’ve been staring more at the prices than at what’s actually on the menu. I know Francis too well not to know that he will always encourage his guests to eat the most expensive dishes, just as he never hesitates to order exorbitantly priced wines. I remember a dinner in Paris to which Francis had invited some very rich Greek collectors: when he asked for a particularly prized vintage he thought they might like they protested that it was too expensive; but Francis didn’t flinch, and I saw how impressed they were, perhaps particularly because, although they were much wealthier than him, he was ready to throw his money around recklessly. Even so, I plump for the suprême de volaille which seems to be about the least outrageously expensive dish, although even then I can see the meal will cost more than I can earn in a week.

  ‘Why don’t you try the lobster, Michael?’ says Francis slightly sharply. ‘They get them sent straight up from Cornwall. Then you could have the roast beef from the trolley, which is particularly good. There’s no point coming to these palaces if you don’t have what you really want. How have things been in Paris?’

  ‘Not bad. The freelance writing is coming together, little by little,’ I say.

  ‘Well, it must be marvellous to write like that. I mean, you can do it anywhere, you don’t have to have a studio or anything to work in. But I’m sure it’s difficult to make a living like that, and I was just thinking before I left the studio that you might well need some money, so I brought some with me.’

  ‘That’s terribly kind of you, Francis,’ I say, blushing. ‘But you’ve already been more than generous towards me, and I’m managing to get by quite reasonably.’

  ‘The thing is’, says Francis, chuckling, ‘that I did have an extraordinary run of luck at roulette the other evening, so I’ve got masses of the stuff on me.’

  ‘I’m very grateful, Francis,’ I say, feeling increasingly clumsy and ill at ease at the way the conversation has turned, unexpectedly focusing on me. ‘Really, I don’t need money at the moment.’

  ‘Well, I have to say I’ve always needed money,’ Francis goes on, unperturbed, ‘and I’ve always taken it whenever I’ve needed it, by any means I could. I can’t say I was at all honest when I was young, I used to rent rooms and leave without paying and that kind of thing. What’s called morality has grown on me with age, and it would be a sort of stupid luxury for me to steal now, but I did steal on occasion. There was this Greek who picked me up once in Dover Street and we went up to his place and afterwards when he was in the bathroom I started going through his pockets and he must have been watching me in the mirror because he came out and said, “What are you doing, Francis?” and I said, “Well, you can see what I’m doing,” and he said, “You don’t have to do that. You only have to ask.” And he took me down to his bank and drew out £100, which was a lot of money in those days, and gave it to me. I must say it was a marvellous way to behave, and I’ve never forgotten it.’

  The lobster has come and gone. After much consultation the wine waiter has filled our glasses with a magnificent Château Latour. I feel its subtle fire slip into my blood and burn away any lingering shyness. All evening I’ve been wanting to ask Francis about his new paintings, not just for my essay but out of a real need to know for myself. There is something about having seen the paintings in the gallery that’s not unlike having witnessed a bad accident or a crime. I feel personally involved. I was hoping he’d bring the paintings up himself since he knows I’m writing about them and this is why I’m here. But it seems to be the last thing on his mind as he scans the wine list to see what we should have opened in advance of the cheese that will provide an even more exquisite experience.

  ‘I thought the new paintings were incredibly powerful,’ I say at what I hope is a suitable lull in the conversation.

  ‘Ah, I’m particularly pleased you like them,’ he replies smoothly, as if my reactions were the decisive factor. ‘There are one or two I quite like
too, but I never really know with my own things.’

  ‘I was wondering what one could really say they were about,’ I mumble over my rare roast beef. ‘It occurred to me that on one level at least they were essentially about love or, um, sex.’

  Francis pauses, his glass midway to his mouth. He looks almost startled. I can’t see whether he thinks I’m merely stating the bleeding obvious or whether I’ve trivialized a far more metaphysical intent.

  ‘Well, I don’t actually think they’re about anything,’ he says slowly, almost as if he were giving evidence. ‘I’m just trying to make my thoughts and sensations about life come back at me with greater intensity. The paintings are about my life, and of course sex is part of that. I suppose I would like to make images that bring you closer to what being human is actually like. But you know painting’s become so impossible now. One can just try and make things a bit more precise. What else is there to do with life but try and make oneself a bit more clear? Of course, after all these years, I don’t know whether it’s ever worked. Now and then I still get this marvellous feeling that I will be able to make it work for a moment. Perhaps I never shall. But I always hope for this great wave of instinct with which I might really be able to change and renew everything.’

  I realize he’s deftly sidestepped my question, but if I challenge him I know it will simply irritate him and he’ll stop opening up.

  ‘There’s no saying whether I’ve been able to change anything at all, obviously,’ Francis continues. ‘Only time can tell about that sort of thing. But I’ve always been fascinated with the idea of making images. With the idea of finding something which will make my own visual experience come back to me more violently. You see, for me painting has always been a way in which I’ve tried to excite myself. Make my own sensations return with more poignancy. But with all the mechanical forms of recording, you see, it has become a much more close and difficult thing. Ah but it’s also made it much more interesting, because if the image is going to be any good nowadays it has to go much deeper than simply recording appearance. Somehow you have to try to get the paint down in such a curious way that it comes back on to the nervous system more exactly and more profoundly. If this image is going to be worth making at all, you see, it has to unlock sensation at a deeper level, it has to go in at an instinctive level. Otherwise, a photograph can do the whole thing much better.’