One of the benefits of being married to an artist is finding an odd and engaging book like this. Lucian Freud, grandson of Sigmund himself, and, along with Francis Bacon, the enfant terrible of modern British painting, was an omnivore: consuming art, friends, sexual partners (hundreds), wives (2), children (14), and the wealthy social elite with equal gusto.
It’s hard not to regard this jaunty mix of biography and celebrity profiling by newspaper editor Georgie Greig with equal parts awe and distain. Freud, who died in 2011 at age 88, may have been an artistic genius, but he was also someone who unapologetically used people like an elegant meal that he would toss away, half eaten, as soon as he saw a more enticing dish appear. He had many passionate affairs, but in the end, his only true loves were himself and painting.
After years of pursuit, Greig succeeded in tracking the elderly Freud to his breakfast lair, a restaurant in Notting Hill, where the reclusive painter allowed Greig into his inner circle. The result is Breakfast with Lucian, a compilation talks and reminiscences, coupled with interviews of former wives, lovers, children, colleagues, and friends (both close and estranged), that I found both entertaining and jaw-dropping.
Freud was a captivating individual who nevertheless ruthlessly subjugated everyone and everything to his painting and portraiture obsession. He was a great, if peculiar painter of the (usually naked) human form, coupled with an unslakable sexual appetite for women, and the occasional man. Both elements suffuse his paintings, even in their blotchy, sagging, aging reality.
Greig identifies a common denominator in Freud’s artistic and personal life: his refusal to ever compromise his determination to live by his own rules nor acquiesce to the needs of others unless it suited him. In his art, this meant that he pursued his obsession with portraiture, based on intense observation and character study, whether his paintings were considered unfashionable and passé, in the 1970s and 80s, or later, when the same works brought him international renown, and millions in sales.
In his private life, he combined this fierce independence with a need for privacy, a taste for high living, whatever the state of his income, and a relish for personal feuds – “a later falling out” becomes one of Greig’s most common descriptions of Freud’s relations of women as well as his art-world friends and colleagues. Freud indulged a gambling addiction, stole back paintings if a client displeased him, engaged in relentless social climbing, and maintained the ability to manipulate and seduce women, mostly younger, well into his 70s. According to Greig, It was not uncommon for Freud to sleep with the daughters of former lovers decades after his affair with their mothers.
Freud’s oldest child was born in 1948, the youngest 36 years later. He painted nude portraits of a number of his children, calmly ignoring all the uproar it triggered. The emotional cost to those around him was no doubt high, although Greig pulls his punches by quoting women and children looking back years and decades later, when the pain had been softened by time.
His painting practices were often equally remarkable. How do you keep a live rat calm for hours while posing for Naked Man with Rat? Feed it champagne and a crushed teaspoon of sleeping pills at intervals. Duh. Everyone who was anyone in Freud’s world either posed for him, or wished to – from Queen Elizabeth to his bookie. But as his ex-wife Caroline Blackwood accurately complained, he often painted them looking much older than they actually were. “His portraits have always been prophecies rather than snapshots of the sitter as physically captured in a precise historical moment,” she wrote to Greig.
Freud died honored and rich, surrounded by perhaps a larger circle of friends and family members than he deserved. Something of monster, but a sacred monster of contemporary painting.