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The Death of Francis Bacon
Madrid. Unfinished. Man dying.
A great painter lies on his deathbed, synapses firing, writhing and reveling in pleasure and pain as a lifetime of chaotic and grotesque sense memories wash over and envelop him.
In this bold and brilliant short work of experimental fiction by the author of Grief Is the Thing with Feathers and Lanny, Max Porter inhabits Francis Bacon in his final moments, translating into seven extraordinary written pictures the explosive final workings of the artist's mind. Writing as painting rather than about painting, Porter lets the images he conjures speak for themselves as they take their revenge on the subject who wielded them in life.
The result is more than a biography: The Death of Francis Bacon is a physical, emotional, historical, sexual, and political bombardment--the measure of a man creative and compromised, erotic and masochistic, inexplicable and inspired.
A great painter lies on his deathbed, synapses firing, writhing and reveling in pleasure and pain as a lifetime of chaotic and grotesque sense memories wash over and envelop him.
In this bold and brilliant short work of experimental fiction by the author of Grief Is the Thing with Feathers and Lanny, Max Porter inhabits Francis Bacon in his final moments, translating into seven extraordinary written pictures the explosive final workings of the artist's mind. Writing as painting rather than about painting, Porter lets the images he conjures speak for themselves as they take their revenge on the subject who wielded them in life.
The result is more than a biography: The Death of Francis Bacon is a physical, emotional, historical, sexual, and political bombardment--the measure of a man creative and compromised, erotic and masochistic, inexplicable and inspired.
80 pages, Hardcover
First published January 5, 2021
106 people are currently reading
8479 people want to read
About the author
Max Porter
54 books1,938 followersMax Porter’s first novel, Grief Is the Thing with Feathers won the Sunday Times/Peter, Fraser + Dunlop Young Writer of the Year, the International Dylan Thomas Prize, the Europese Literatuurprijs and the BAMB Readers’ Award and was shortlisted for the Guardian First Book Award and the Goldsmiths Prize. It has been sold in twenty-nine territories. Complicité and Wayward’s production of Grief Is the Thing with Feathers directed by Enda Walsh and starring Cillian Murphy opened in Dublin in March 2018. Max lives in Bath with his family.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 609 reviews
January 20, 2021
I will start by being honest. Max Porter’s previous two books are not my favourite books. I didn’t get on very well with “Grief…”. I enjoyed Lanny more, but not really. Which may leave you wondering why I read this new book of his. I think what won me over was when I read it was an attempt to “write as painting”. If that excites you like it excites me, then give this book a go. If that leaves you cold, then don’t go anywhere near this book.
In a video on the Faber website, Porter says ”It stinks, I hope, this book, of turpentine and oil and fags and cologne and breath mints”. This is not a book that makes any attempt at plot or even, most of the time, coherence. And, to be honest, that’s probably why I liked it so much and why others have and will not like it at all (at the time of writing just 3 of my Goodreads friends have rated it and they just about managed to get to 5 stars between them - overall on Goodreads it is faring a bit better with a score of 3.26 over 183 ratings).
If you are not au fait with Francis Bacon, I would recommend a bit of time spent reading up about him before attempting this book. Here’s a very brief bit of info that will give some context for the book. Bacon took a trip to Madrid in 1992 to visit his last great love, a banker called José Capelo. Whilst in the city, he was taken ill with kidney and breathing problems (long-standing health issues) and taken to a convent hospital where, for six days until he died, he was cared for by a nun called Sister Mercedes. In those six days, no one visited him and, because he spoke very little Spanish, he hardly spoke.
This book is an imaginative trip into the silence of those few days. It is written in fairly impenetrable prose (sometimes poetry, really) that work by impression rather than by detail: you have to read the book and go with the images that form as you read rather than trying to understand the individual sentences, paragraphs and chapters. If you are prepared to let go and see where it takes you, you will go on a journey. It’s a sad journey, but that is only to be expected as it is the journey of a man in his last six days of life and he is alone and he is looking back. Sometimes he talks about his painting, sometimes he appears to be talking to his painting. What do you make of:
I’m going to tip you forward out of the frame and whip your buttock with lead white to give a sense of a fight.
You’re going to be a person spilling out of a trap, and I’m going to be a person who is fatherly, f**kable, and this is going to upset you, exhilarate me and interest scholars. (asterisks mine to, possibly, avoid offence).
At one point, the narrative appears to turn into a discussion between Bacon and Porter with Porter seeming to look to explain what he is doing:
It’s an attempt to express my feelings about a painter I have a long unfashionable fixation with.
It’s an attempt to get art history out of the way and let the paintings speak.
At another point, he spends time reviewing his well known interview with David Sylvester where he gave his famous quote that painting is an accident.
I can quite see why this book does not work for some readers. It’s right to say that the words on the page don’t make a lot of sense at times. But that isn’t Porter’s intention, as far as I can see. The individual brush strokes of a painting don’t make a lot of sense: the painting only comes together when you stand back from it and see the brush strokes working together to create a complete work of art. And here, when you step back at the end of the book, is a picture of a dying man that is both sad and moving.
In the end, I’m glad I overcame my prejudice based on Porter’s previous two novels. I read this book twice in one evening, which isn’t as impressive as it sounds because it only takes about 30-45 minutes per reading. It was on the second reading that some ideas started to fall into place, so as well as recommending you make sure you know some basic facts about Bacon, I would also recommend you read this at least twice.
In a video on the Faber website, Porter says ”It stinks, I hope, this book, of turpentine and oil and fags and cologne and breath mints”. This is not a book that makes any attempt at plot or even, most of the time, coherence. And, to be honest, that’s probably why I liked it so much and why others have and will not like it at all (at the time of writing just 3 of my Goodreads friends have rated it and they just about managed to get to 5 stars between them - overall on Goodreads it is faring a bit better with a score of 3.26 over 183 ratings).
If you are not au fait with Francis Bacon, I would recommend a bit of time spent reading up about him before attempting this book. Here’s a very brief bit of info that will give some context for the book. Bacon took a trip to Madrid in 1992 to visit his last great love, a banker called José Capelo. Whilst in the city, he was taken ill with kidney and breathing problems (long-standing health issues) and taken to a convent hospital where, for six days until he died, he was cared for by a nun called Sister Mercedes. In those six days, no one visited him and, because he spoke very little Spanish, he hardly spoke.
This book is an imaginative trip into the silence of those few days. It is written in fairly impenetrable prose (sometimes poetry, really) that work by impression rather than by detail: you have to read the book and go with the images that form as you read rather than trying to understand the individual sentences, paragraphs and chapters. If you are prepared to let go and see where it takes you, you will go on a journey. It’s a sad journey, but that is only to be expected as it is the journey of a man in his last six days of life and he is alone and he is looking back. Sometimes he talks about his painting, sometimes he appears to be talking to his painting. What do you make of:
I’m going to tip you forward out of the frame and whip your buttock with lead white to give a sense of a fight.
You’re going to be a person spilling out of a trap, and I’m going to be a person who is fatherly, f**kable, and this is going to upset you, exhilarate me and interest scholars. (asterisks mine to, possibly, avoid offence).
At one point, the narrative appears to turn into a discussion between Bacon and Porter with Porter seeming to look to explain what he is doing:
It’s an attempt to express my feelings about a painter I have a long unfashionable fixation with.
It’s an attempt to get art history out of the way and let the paintings speak.
At another point, he spends time reviewing his well known interview with David Sylvester where he gave his famous quote that painting is an accident.
I can quite see why this book does not work for some readers. It’s right to say that the words on the page don’t make a lot of sense at times. But that isn’t Porter’s intention, as far as I can see. The individual brush strokes of a painting don’t make a lot of sense: the painting only comes together when you stand back from it and see the brush strokes working together to create a complete work of art. And here, when you step back at the end of the book, is a picture of a dying man that is both sad and moving.
In the end, I’m glad I overcame my prejudice based on Porter’s previous two novels. I read this book twice in one evening, which isn’t as impressive as it sounds because it only takes about 30-45 minutes per reading. It was on the second reading that some ideas started to fall into place, so as well as recommending you make sure you know some basic facts about Bacon, I would also recommend you read this at least twice.
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June 26, 2025
Men stop writing about your dick challenge–GO!
Suffering, decay, the poetic expression of the soul upon the canvas, and the inescapability of death come smattering upon the pages of Max Porter’s The Death of Francis Bacon. To be clear the titular death is of Bacon the painter not Bacon the philosopher, you know the guy who painted this:
Bacon had a knack for visceral imagery expressed in the abstract that was as unsettling as it was engaging and entertaining, an effect Porter attempts to replicate in his signature not-quite-a-novel yet not-quite-poetry hybrid style, using words like brushstrokes in the ‘written paintings’ of his novella. While he manages to convey the unsettling, disjointed, and abstactuality of Bacon in his final days perishing in silence within a convent hospital in Madrid in 1992, he doesn’t quite stick the landing of engaging and entertaining. Sure, his use of language is a commendable experiment—one that worked more productively reigned in a bit and in keeping with the thematic Ted Hughes elements of Grief Is the Thing With Feathers—but if the words were brushstrokes capturing the atmosphere of chaos, they are strokes done too quickly with too many colors that merely becomes a murky sludge smearing the literary canvas. Still, it is an interesting way to access the life and legacy of the famous painter and takes a kaleidoscopically metafictional route through his notable interviews—even in conversation with Porter himself—and paintings for a rather chaotic and gritty read.
‘I’ve been lost a bit. It’s just dying, finally. Pity me, up and lead the dance of fate.’
‘Take a seat’ Bacon begins each chapter, ushering us in for a raucous ride along his feverish deathbed thoughts. Told flittingly through a jumbled stream-of-consciousness that sashays without context between imagination and the goings on of his hospital room (his Spanish nurse repeating ‘intenta descansar’ or “try to rest” like a rhythmic refrain), Porter attempts to capture the mind pushed to its limit in a spiralling decay. Granted it is more successful as showmanship over readerly satisfaction to the point that the technique begins to feel quite threadbare and gimmicky even though the book is under 100 pages and occasionally feels like an attempt to push the experimentational styles of Virginia Woolf and Anne Carson to find a new range of limits in a way that feels more edgelord-y than anything else (in an interview, Porter admits to Carson being an influence but then states that he no longer finds much joy in her work ever since college girls have begun to popularize The Glass Essay, which made me roll my eyes and wonder if the rampant misogyny that appears in many of his novels—most notably Shy or his idolization of super problematic poets like Ted Hughes—may be less character traits and more characteristic of his vision). I do, however, really respect his attempt to write like a painting as opposed to writing about painting and while the style was a bit heavy-handed to the point of annoyance for me I am glad it works for others and is still a commendable, ambitious attempt. His vision is summed up by the Porter figure in the novel quite well, too:
Love it or hate it, there is at least something fresh about it even if I wish he spent more time on Bacon’s art and less on the more shock-value aspects and eulogizing about his phallus. But thats just me, if you loved this (and many have) I’m glad for you and I wish I could say the same. I also rather disliked Shy but I have a respect for Porter that keeps me trying more.
‘In my case all painting is an accident.’
—Francis Bacon
This is a book where having some background knowledge on Bacon is quite beneficial as Porter won’t spell much out for you. Which, again, I quite respect. The novella features him wrestling with his legacy and own themes of suffering and death, and, as his biographer Michael Peppiatt wrote his was ‘a life filled with the extremes of human emotion and devoted to expressing them with utmost force had ended, almost anonymously, in utter silence.’ The story is set in his final days dying in a hospital in a country where he couldn’t speak much of the language and found himself stuck in silence which really does lend itself to literature stepping in to fill in the spaces left by his silence. We see Bacon considering how his work was ‘pretending it confronted death / when all it did was illustrate again and again a / lazy fear of it,’ but now he must confront death head on in isolation and there is a rather harrowing and all-too-human emotional current running like a live wire through the short book.
‘Show me how this mess steps aside and lets you
make a perfect surface of unbroken colour.’
Don’t get me wrong, The Death of Francis Bacon has a lot of great ideas and creative execution going for it. While I personally didn’t enjoy it, there is a lot to be said about how well Porter does make the emotion come alive in a rather unconventional way and can convey a lot of heart and narrative without any semblance of a plot. It’s all the sort of things I usually like, but the voice just fell flat for me here. But I do love to see something take this ambitious of a jab into a subject I quite love and for that I will applaud Porter. I hope you like this one more than I did.
2.5/5
Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion circa 1944
Suffering, decay, the poetic expression of the soul upon the canvas, and the inescapability of death come smattering upon the pages of Max Porter’s The Death of Francis Bacon. To be clear the titular death is of Bacon the painter not Bacon the philosopher, you know the guy who painted this:
Bacon had a knack for visceral imagery expressed in the abstract that was as unsettling as it was engaging and entertaining, an effect Porter attempts to replicate in his signature not-quite-a-novel yet not-quite-poetry hybrid style, using words like brushstrokes in the ‘written paintings’ of his novella. While he manages to convey the unsettling, disjointed, and abstactuality of Bacon in his final days perishing in silence within a convent hospital in Madrid in 1992, he doesn’t quite stick the landing of engaging and entertaining. Sure, his use of language is a commendable experiment—one that worked more productively reigned in a bit and in keeping with the thematic Ted Hughes elements of Grief Is the Thing With Feathers—but if the words were brushstrokes capturing the atmosphere of chaos, they are strokes done too quickly with too many colors that merely becomes a murky sludge smearing the literary canvas. Still, it is an interesting way to access the life and legacy of the famous painter and takes a kaleidoscopically metafictional route through his notable interviews—even in conversation with Porter himself—and paintings for a rather chaotic and gritty read.
‘I’ve been lost a bit. It’s just dying, finally. Pity me, up and lead the dance of fate.’
‘Take a seat’ Bacon begins each chapter, ushering us in for a raucous ride along his feverish deathbed thoughts. Told flittingly through a jumbled stream-of-consciousness that sashays without context between imagination and the goings on of his hospital room (his Spanish nurse repeating ‘intenta descansar’ or “try to rest” like a rhythmic refrain), Porter attempts to capture the mind pushed to its limit in a spiralling decay. Granted it is more successful as showmanship over readerly satisfaction to the point that the technique begins to feel quite threadbare and gimmicky even though the book is under 100 pages and occasionally feels like an attempt to push the experimentational styles of Virginia Woolf and Anne Carson to find a new range of limits in a way that feels more edgelord-y than anything else (in an interview, Porter admits to Carson being an influence but then states that he no longer finds much joy in her work ever since college girls have begun to popularize The Glass Essay, which made me roll my eyes and wonder if the rampant misogyny that appears in many of his novels—most notably Shy or his idolization of super problematic poets like Ted Hughes—may be less character traits and more characteristic of his vision). I do, however, really respect his attempt to write like a painting as opposed to writing about painting and while the style was a bit heavy-handed to the point of annoyance for me I am glad it works for others and is still a commendable, ambitious attempt. His vision is summed up by the Porter figure in the novel quite well, too:
‘It’s an attempt to express my feelings about a
painter I have had a long unfashionable fixation
with.
It’s an attempt to get art history out of the way
and let the paintings speak.
It’s an attempt to hold catastrophe still so you
can get a proper sniff at it.’
Love it or hate it, there is at least something fresh about it even if I wish he spent more time on Bacon’s art and less on the more shock-value aspects and eulogizing about his phallus. But thats just me, if you loved this (and many have) I’m glad for you and I wish I could say the same. I also rather disliked Shy but I have a respect for Porter that keeps me trying more.
‘In my case all painting is an accident.’
—Francis Bacon
This is a book where having some background knowledge on Bacon is quite beneficial as Porter won’t spell much out for you. Which, again, I quite respect. The novella features him wrestling with his legacy and own themes of suffering and death, and, as his biographer Michael Peppiatt wrote his was ‘a life filled with the extremes of human emotion and devoted to expressing them with utmost force had ended, almost anonymously, in utter silence.’ The story is set in his final days dying in a hospital in a country where he couldn’t speak much of the language and found himself stuck in silence which really does lend itself to literature stepping in to fill in the spaces left by his silence. We see Bacon considering how his work was ‘pretending it confronted death / when all it did was illustrate again and again a / lazy fear of it,’ but now he must confront death head on in isolation and there is a rather harrowing and all-too-human emotional current running like a live wire through the short book.
‘Show me how this mess steps aside and lets you
make a perfect surface of unbroken colour.’
Don’t get me wrong, The Death of Francis Bacon has a lot of great ideas and creative execution going for it. While I personally didn’t enjoy it, there is a lot to be said about how well Porter does make the emotion come alive in a rather unconventional way and can convey a lot of heart and narrative without any semblance of a plot. It’s all the sort of things I usually like, but the voice just fell flat for me here. But I do love to see something take this ambitious of a jab into a subject I quite love and for that I will applaud Porter. I hope you like this one more than I did.
2.5/5
Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion circa 1944
Read
January 15, 2021[5th book of 2021. All paintings in this review by, naturally, English (Irish-born) painter Francis Bacon.]
“Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion”—1944
Returning to the familiar style of his first two “novels”, Grief is the Thing with Feathers and Lanny, Porter’s new book The Death of Francis Bacon is written on the fine line between prose and poetry. It’s quite hard to explain this book, so instead I’ll quote Porter’s ambitions verbatim:
That was the ambition. The result is an elusive, wandering, directionless, subtle, visceral, violent book reeking of sex, piss, fags... It is probably the closest thing to a Francis Bacon painting possible. Porter's writing here is stellar, unapologetic. It is completely vague but at the same time made purely of imagery, and if not imagery, stark abstractions. Some examples:
“Three Studies for Self-Portrait”—1979
Bacon is quite the character to try and capture, and Bacon’s work, even more of a challenge; Porter goes for more, Porter goes for Bacon’s last days—his death. The death of an artist, a man who indulged in sex and booze and drugs, a man who is perhaps one of the most famous English artists in recent years. Certainly his oeuvre still stands as some of the most acclaimed, and expensive, work on the market. Porter himself says there are thousands of people who know more about art than him, more about Francis Bacon than him… (There are always people who know more than you); but Porter wanted to find something of the emotion within, something that an expert in Bacon could not fathom, or else could not create. What is art, if it is not cutting through life to find some deep-rooted emotion? Porter has created something beautiful, original, and also, at times, quite disgusting and visceral, and I think that proves, when I think about it, that this book is somewhat a success. However, it will certainly not be for everyone, and looking at the reviews, that much is evident. Some appreciation of art and some appreciation, or perhaps acceptance, of the abstract and vague is needed for reading this book. Also, instructions for use: Read aloud, always.
Francis Bacon in his Studio—Photo from The Telegraph
For these reasons, it does not yield easily to a rating system from 1 to 5. Intenta descansar.
“Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion”—1944
Returning to the familiar style of his first two “novels”, Grief is the Thing with Feathers and Lanny, Porter’s new book The Death of Francis Bacon is written on the fine line between prose and poetry. It’s quite hard to explain this book, so instead I’ll quote Porter’s ambitions verbatim:
“This is my attempt to write as painting, not about it; an attempt to replicate thought, struggle, the struggle of thought, but also the sheer energy of the eye’s confrontation with the painted image. It’s the result of a long preoccupation I’ve had with Francis Bacon and I hope that, even though it is a book about death, it’s very much a living thing.”
That was the ambition. The result is an elusive, wandering, directionless, subtle, visceral, violent book reeking of sex, piss, fags... It is probably the closest thing to a Francis Bacon painting possible. Porter's writing here is stellar, unapologetic. It is completely vague but at the same time made purely of imagery, and if not imagery, stark abstractions. Some examples:
Take a seat why don’t you, but I’m still asleep so she doesn’t hear. Nice familiar weight at the foot of the bed, the sort of fever guest weight, aunt or mother, nurse, or the after-fuck check-up, to tuck me in, still a little whiff of hurt in the room, of procedures. Rather wonderful actually, to be reminded of childhood sickness and post-coital exhaustion in the same second. Rather comforting. Close.
Take a seat why don’t you.
I heard you before, piggy.
“Three Studies for Self-Portrait”—1979
Bacon is quite the character to try and capture, and Bacon’s work, even more of a challenge; Porter goes for more, Porter goes for Bacon’s last days—his death. The death of an artist, a man who indulged in sex and booze and drugs, a man who is perhaps one of the most famous English artists in recent years. Certainly his oeuvre still stands as some of the most acclaimed, and expensive, work on the market. Porter himself says there are thousands of people who know more about art than him, more about Francis Bacon than him… (There are always people who know more than you); but Porter wanted to find something of the emotion within, something that an expert in Bacon could not fathom, or else could not create. What is art, if it is not cutting through life to find some deep-rooted emotion? Porter has created something beautiful, original, and also, at times, quite disgusting and visceral, and I think that proves, when I think about it, that this book is somewhat a success. However, it will certainly not be for everyone, and looking at the reviews, that much is evident. Some appreciation of art and some appreciation, or perhaps acceptance, of the abstract and vague is needed for reading this book. Also, instructions for use: Read aloud, always.
No, not this time. I want you lost, lover and critic kicked off the gum jetty at the end of the triptych licked or on your knees, back to me saying Please, I did it to hurt you, to spoil Paris, and me saying CAN’T HEAR YOU, I did it because it was easy, your profile, cut out, ready, and everyone else was dying and I had a horrid stabbing realistic knack of surviving. Endless errors, no confusion, gag me, stop me speaking thinking about you, stop me working.
One two three. Nothing but pain.
Sí.
I’m die-ready.
Sí. Soon, piggy.
Intenta descansar.
Francis Bacon in his Studio—Photo from The Telegraph
For these reasons, it does not yield easily to a rating system from 1 to 5. Intenta descansar.
August 7, 2021
*craaaack*: Sound of Max Porters first work Grief so the Thing with Feathers shattering my heart…
*kapow*: Sound of Max Porters second work Lanny blowing my mind…
*whoooosh*: Sound of The Death of Francis Bacon flying clear over my head…
*kapow*: Sound of Max Porters second work Lanny blowing my mind…
*whoooosh*: Sound of The Death of Francis Bacon flying clear over my head…
July 15, 2021
The century abandoned me at dusk. I panicked and added more newsprint. Crappy friends leaving me, crappy artists, crappy bitter aphorisms pouring out of me, plasticky surgery belches, dapper, bandaged, trashed, honestly I behaved horribly. I’ve been lost a bit. It’s just dying, finally. Pity me, up and lead the dance of fate.
David Mitchell recently popularised the phrase (originally attributed to Martin Mull of all people), “Writing about music is like dancing about architecture”, and in the same vein, with The Death of Francis Bacon, author Max Porter ups the ante by not simply writing about painting but attempting to “write as painting” (according to a quote on his publisher’s website; emphasis my own). I confess to not being familiar with the life and work of the (surrealist? abstract impressionist?) British painter Francis Bacon, but I did do a shallow dive before starting this short novella and I would suggest that some such familiarity is absolutely necessary for anyone hoping to discover a few handholds of reality in this slippery, abstract work. And do you know what I discovered? I don’t really “get” or “like” the work of Francis Bacon. It’s too weird and ugly and unsettling, and by attempting to “replicate thought, struggle, the struggle of thought, but also the sheer energy of the eye’s confrontation with the painted image” through writing (an effort as sensical as dancing about architecture), Porter has created a narrative that is equally as weird, ugly, and unsettling — but with the added confusion of language. Were I a knowledgeable and devoted fan of Bacon’s work, I might have found this a brilliant bit of prose; but as a Philistine who would likely give Britain’s most famous and highest-selling artist a three star rating, I can only do the same for this novella. (Note: I read an ARC through NetGalley and passages quoted may not be in their final forms.)
It’s an attempt to express my feelings about a painter I have had a long unfashionable fixation with. It’s an attempt to get art history out of the way and let the paintings speak. It’s an attempt to hold catastrophe still so you can get a proper sniff at it.
I learned from my shallow dive into Bacon’s biography that he died in Madrid in 1992, spending the last six days of his life under the care of a nursing sister in a private clinic, the Handmaids of Maria. The Death of Francis Bacon covers these last six days, with Bacon more or less rambling on at Sister Mercedes about his life and work, referencing identifiable paintings and lovers and interviews as she encourages him to get some rest, intenta descansar. Each of the six short chapters (plus preface) begins with the dimensions of a painting (which other reviewers assure me relate to actual works) and the writing that follows is gritty, visceral, and closer to poetry than prose:
You look well Aelfryth, you look well Edward, long ride, good day, strong wind, sea air, here, some beer, a long gladdening gulp of gold, the colour of the stone, strange look, first cold, extremely cold and makes him think of river swims and soiling his sheets, shock, shame, the wet sock game, being stabbed is the same, extraordinary pain, the colour blue, lapis right through him, and then again and again and she’s walking back into the castle and he’s dripping venison memory, white fat and clicking, smoke, dripping onto the stones, trying to turn and see where the hurt is, caught in the stirrup and upside down, crack on the skull metal thump in the side in a brawl with the pages, again, crack again, black, bits of his brain scattered on the track thumping down the hill down the hill down the hill and into the river Corfe, last thought is of the beer, wasted, where is the cup, we are concerned with those who notice the cup, yes the dead king, yes politics, meat and temporality, but also the well-made cup, perched body ripe and crucial on the road.
As I said above, this is a very short work — it only takes about a half hour to read, so I went through it twice — and while it was the surrealism of Porter’s Lanny that most entranced me with that book, writing about surrealistic painting, once again, seems about as transferable as dancing about architecture (or “singing about economics” if you prefer; apparently the original original simile). This was interesting, I did appreciate what I learned on and off the page — and I will grant that a more knowledgeable reader might find this to be a perfect result of Porter’s intent — but it doesn’t go beyond a three star “like” for me.
Last sight isn’t human after all, is pure throb colour on the heart inside.
Get some distance, stand back, six feet, no glass, no label, no price list, no body, no gallerist. Just the painting. Seal the lid. Is pure throb colour on the heart inside.
No more.
Is pure throb colour on the heart inside.
Sí. Intenta descansar.
March 7, 2021
It’s an attempt to express my feelings about a
painter I have had a long unfashionable fixation
with.
It’s an attempt to get art history out of the way
and let the paintings speak.
It’s an attempt to hold catastrophe still so you
can get a proper sniff at it.
Reads like a fever dream. Or the poetic epilogue of a missing biography.
painter I have had a long unfashionable fixation
with.
It’s an attempt to get art history out of the way
and let the paintings speak.
It’s an attempt to hold catastrophe still so you
can get a proper sniff at it.
Reads like a fever dream. Or the poetic epilogue of a missing biography.
November 9, 2020
I liked Porter's first book. His second, Lanny, was magnificent, a work of inventive genius. But I have no idea what he is doing with The Death of Francis Bacon.
This slim, strange collection of... Well, I'm not sure what it is. I don't think I understood even one paragraph in the whole thing. If anyone beyond the writer himself is able to decipher the strands of this, I'll be very surprised.
Umm
Yeah
Not good
This slim, strange collection of... Well, I'm not sure what it is. I don't think I understood even one paragraph in the whole thing. If anyone beyond the writer himself is able to decipher the strands of this, I'll be very surprised.
Umm
Yeah
Not good
February 1, 2021
I will love Max Porter til the end of time, but I barely understood a word
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May 29, 2022This has a horrific aggregate rating, so I don’t want to add to it by dropping a 1-star on it. The book has all the charm of a Porter book, in terms of writing style at least. Poetic, short, fast-paced, in your face. Boom. Boom. Bam. But it’s his attempt at “writing as painting, not about it” (those are his words). “It’s busy and complex on the surface in an attempt to replicate thought, struggle; the struggle of thought, but also the sheer energy of the eye’s confrontation with the painted image.”
I don’t really know anything about Francis Bacon. I am not a connoisseur of art. Not even a dilettante, really. Just a bumbling idiot. So if anyone has recommendation of books in the style of those glossy, beautiful DK books (maybe even a specific DK book?) that compiles “good” art and says a bit about it, I would be forever grateful. I don’t know – I went to the British Museum and the National Gallery in London recently and was standing there in awe, hoping there was more time in the day and more time in the trip. All that to say, I am not where I want to be for this book yet. It’s really nice to read, but is just missing that gut feeling.
Also, side note: this book is absolutely tiny. And on top of all that, it’s $22.95. It will take you less than 30 minutes to finish. There is a lot of white space. I found it in for a portion of that price, but would I have tossed a 1-star on it had I spent the full amount? Probably still no. But these publishers man. Come on.
I don’t really know anything about Francis Bacon. I am not a connoisseur of art. Not even a dilettante, really. Just a bumbling idiot. So if anyone has recommendation of books in the style of those glossy, beautiful DK books (maybe even a specific DK book?) that compiles “good” art and says a bit about it, I would be forever grateful. I don’t know – I went to the British Museum and the National Gallery in London recently and was standing there in awe, hoping there was more time in the day and more time in the trip. All that to say, I am not where I want to be for this book yet. It’s really nice to read, but is just missing that gut feeling.
Also, side note: this book is absolutely tiny. And on top of all that, it’s $22.95. It will take you less than 30 minutes to finish. There is a lot of white space. I found it in for a portion of that price, but would I have tossed a 1-star on it had I spent the full amount? Probably still no. But these publishers man. Come on.
July 16, 2021
Erm?! Yeah, I think the word ‘erm’ just about sums this up.
After first viewing Bacon’s 1965 ‘Portrait of Henrietta Moraes on a Blue Couch’ in the Manchester art Gallery as a teen I’ve been a firm fan of his work (which people can be pretty snobby about). Add to that the fact that I bloody loved Porter’s ‘Grief is the Thing with Feathers’ and its take on the life and oeuvre of Ted Hughes, and you’ll appreciate that I was pretty excited to get my hands on this little mash up.
All the meat and food and shit and spunk and ‘ciggy’ and colour references do evoke a general sense of what standing back and looking at a Bacon can make me feel (particularly the meat) but it never really struck home as I hoped it would.
Knowing that Bacon died alone in a hospital ward in Madrid I was excited that Porter’s conceit centred upon the artist’s final days and the ‘explosive final workings of the artist’s mind’ but here in lies my problem. I’m cool with an author putting themselves anywhere they like, but throughout this it was a bit weird to think of Porter crafting Bacon’s dying delusions for his own narrative/personal ends. It felt a little like I was stuck in a washing machine with Porter as he smashed out all of his thoughts on what he wanted Bacon to find important in his final hours. It felt like a private journey I shouldn’t have been invited on.
You can tell Porter has a lot of mixed up feelings when it comes to his appreciation of Bacon. I love the way he writes, the words he uses, but I just found this was like a personal love (rejection) letter between Porter and his imagined Bacon and that readers like me weren’t really granted access to the dislocated and disorientating (and I’m sure thoroughly researched) death bed world that’s being created.
Porter hints at certain works, spinning the delusional thread from visual cues, but he left an amateur Baconist like myself guessing as to the actual images (if they exist) that are the catalyst of the dying Bacon’s supposed musings. I suppose after reading so much of that master of ekphrasis, Ali Smith recently I was hoping for some of her magic when it comes to digging up the feelings a certain work of art can conjure, but Porter’s text just left me guessing and a bit frustrated.
After first viewing Bacon’s 1965 ‘Portrait of Henrietta Moraes on a Blue Couch’ in the Manchester art Gallery as a teen I’ve been a firm fan of his work (which people can be pretty snobby about). Add to that the fact that I bloody loved Porter’s ‘Grief is the Thing with Feathers’ and its take on the life and oeuvre of Ted Hughes, and you’ll appreciate that I was pretty excited to get my hands on this little mash up.
All the meat and food and shit and spunk and ‘ciggy’ and colour references do evoke a general sense of what standing back and looking at a Bacon can make me feel (particularly the meat) but it never really struck home as I hoped it would.
Knowing that Bacon died alone in a hospital ward in Madrid I was excited that Porter’s conceit centred upon the artist’s final days and the ‘explosive final workings of the artist’s mind’ but here in lies my problem. I’m cool with an author putting themselves anywhere they like, but throughout this it was a bit weird to think of Porter crafting Bacon’s dying delusions for his own narrative/personal ends. It felt a little like I was stuck in a washing machine with Porter as he smashed out all of his thoughts on what he wanted Bacon to find important in his final hours. It felt like a private journey I shouldn’t have been invited on.
You can tell Porter has a lot of mixed up feelings when it comes to his appreciation of Bacon. I love the way he writes, the words he uses, but I just found this was like a personal love (rejection) letter between Porter and his imagined Bacon and that readers like me weren’t really granted access to the dislocated and disorientating (and I’m sure thoroughly researched) death bed world that’s being created.
Porter hints at certain works, spinning the delusional thread from visual cues, but he left an amateur Baconist like myself guessing as to the actual images (if they exist) that are the catalyst of the dying Bacon’s supposed musings. I suppose after reading so much of that master of ekphrasis, Ali Smith recently I was hoping for some of her magic when it comes to digging up the feelings a certain work of art can conjure, but Porter’s text just left me guessing and a bit frustrated.
January 15, 2021
This is a thrilling experiment of a book; Max Porter explores the mental state of an incredibly complex man, on his deathbed, through an attempt to convey the spirit of his paintings, his style, through words. I've got huge respect for such a bold and evocative project, and even more respect for a writer who turns around from massive mainstream success and produces something like this, which will no doubt split an audience.
March 22, 2021
Max Porter is probably one of my favorite writers these days. His works are always imaginative and they play with structure too, which is super refreshing since most authors nowadays don’t seem to care too much about the actual craft of writing (I said it). And I loved his first two books, so I was obviously quite excited for his newest one, The Death of Francis Bacon, which was published earlier this year in the UK (I’ve no idea when it comes out stateside).
Francis Bacon is a very high-concept novella/short story. We get artist Francis Bacon (British, 1909–1992) on his deathbed and descriptions of his final seven works. It’s very fragmentary and, honestly, doesn’t really make any sense. And it probably wouldn’t unless you’re Max Porter or a Bacon scholar. And since I’m neither—and have only a rudimentary knowledge of art and painting in general—I feel like this was bound to lean toward confusion (at least for me).
Unfortunately, this one doesn’t work for me, and seeing the reviews, it appears that I’m not the only one who thinks so. Art doesn't have to make sense, but it should at least be entertaining (to a degree). I appreciate what he's created but the whole just needed more structure for me. Also having the paintings would’ve been a big help! Not sure if that’s, like, a rights issue or what, but I think there’d be many more positive reactions if we could at least see what’s being described. Oh, well. Can’t win 'em all. I still look forward to whatever he comes up with next, though!
Francis Bacon is a very high-concept novella/short story. We get artist Francis Bacon (British, 1909–1992) on his deathbed and descriptions of his final seven works. It’s very fragmentary and, honestly, doesn’t really make any sense. And it probably wouldn’t unless you’re Max Porter or a Bacon scholar. And since I’m neither—and have only a rudimentary knowledge of art and painting in general—I feel like this was bound to lean toward confusion (at least for me).
Unfortunately, this one doesn’t work for me, and seeing the reviews, it appears that I’m not the only one who thinks so. Art doesn't have to make sense, but it should at least be entertaining (to a degree). I appreciate what he's created but the whole just needed more structure for me. Also having the paintings would’ve been a big help! Not sure if that’s, like, a rights issue or what, but I think there’d be many more positive reactions if we could at least see what’s being described. Oh, well. Can’t win 'em all. I still look forward to whatever he comes up with next, though!
January 1, 2021
Glimpses of brilliance mixed with feelings of What the hell am I reading right now.
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April 16, 2021Gisteren heb ik samen met twee vrienden gedurende anderhalf uur dit boekje besproken, we hebben gezocht, gedacht, geanalyseerd, gediscussieerd, en ik begrijp er nog steeds niks van.
The Death of Francis Bacon is een werkje waarin de Britse schrijver Max Porter aan de slag gaat met de wereldberoemde schilder Francis Bacon. In 7 hoofdstukken en 74 bladzijden beschrijft Porter de indrukken van de schilder die op sterven ligt in Madrid. Er komen geliefden en vrienden op bezoek, er komen schilderijen voorbij, scènes uit zijn leven. Elk hoofdstuk draagt als titel de technische beschrijving van een (fictief?) schilderij: "Oil on canvas, 651/2 x 56 in." (p. 13).
Misschien is het een fictief verhaal over de laatste dagen van Francis Bacon. Misschien zijn het hallucinaties en waanbeelden van een stervende. Het is onduidelijk. Als lezer word je in het ongewisse gelaten.
Max Porter gebruikt afwisselend korte dialogen en stukken proza, citaten en korte gedichten, in een boek vol herhalingen en variaties. The Death of Francis Bacon is een wervelend muzikaal en poëtisch huzarenstukje. In een begeleidend filmpje vertelt Max Porter dat hij wilde schrijven zoals Francis Bacon schildert.
Maar ondanks de bevlogenheid en de verrukkelijke taal, blijft het boekje bijzonder hermetisch. Ik zeg het: ook na anderhalf uur bespreking begrijp ik er inhoudelijk niet veel van.
Ik las The Death of Francis Bacon in het Engels. Ik kocht mijn exemplaar in boekhandel Limerick in Gent.
Volledig leesverslag: https://wimoosterlinck.wordpress.com/...
The Death of Francis Bacon is een werkje waarin de Britse schrijver Max Porter aan de slag gaat met de wereldberoemde schilder Francis Bacon. In 7 hoofdstukken en 74 bladzijden beschrijft Porter de indrukken van de schilder die op sterven ligt in Madrid. Er komen geliefden en vrienden op bezoek, er komen schilderijen voorbij, scènes uit zijn leven. Elk hoofdstuk draagt als titel de technische beschrijving van een (fictief?) schilderij: "Oil on canvas, 651/2 x 56 in." (p. 13).
Misschien is het een fictief verhaal over de laatste dagen van Francis Bacon. Misschien zijn het hallucinaties en waanbeelden van een stervende. Het is onduidelijk. Als lezer word je in het ongewisse gelaten.
Max Porter gebruikt afwisselend korte dialogen en stukken proza, citaten en korte gedichten, in een boek vol herhalingen en variaties. The Death of Francis Bacon is een wervelend muzikaal en poëtisch huzarenstukje. In een begeleidend filmpje vertelt Max Porter dat hij wilde schrijven zoals Francis Bacon schildert.
Maar ondanks de bevlogenheid en de verrukkelijke taal, blijft het boekje bijzonder hermetisch. Ik zeg het: ook na anderhalf uur bespreking begrijp ik er inhoudelijk niet veel van.
Ik las The Death of Francis Bacon in het Engels. Ik kocht mijn exemplaar in boekhandel Limerick in Gent.
Volledig leesverslag: https://wimoosterlinck.wordpress.com/...
March 6, 2021
I adored 'Lanny' but I strongly disliked 'Grief is the Thing with Feathers' (yes, I'm the only one) so I knew Porter's new one could go either way. Well… I just don't know. Raw thoughts: It's too conceptual, too fragmented, too niche. What it all comes down to is this: so much of it went over my head, and I didn't have the patience to sort it all out. Also, I'm unfamiliar with Francis Bacon or his work, so that certainly didn't do me any favors.
I guess I'll say, it's not the book; it's me. Perhaps I'll revisit the book sometime in the near future (I say this knowing I probably won't).
I guess I'll say, it's not the book; it's me. Perhaps I'll revisit the book sometime in the near future (I say this knowing I probably won't).
January 6, 2021
Words, supposedly, are applied mimetically to capture Bacon's painting style. "We are all in the gutter but some of us are looking at the stars"said Wilde. Bacon rather liked describing the gutter. Porter too. And he seems to have written this on a very cloudy night. Indulgent in all the wrong ways.
April 4, 2022
reading max porter is like post coital dissociation mixed with the feeling of watching the end of a bullfight in a language you don’t understand when you’re eight years old and its raining hard
January 22, 2025
Read this before bed because i shall never allow myself to rest easy. Reading this felt like having the hands of death grip around your throat sucking life out of you, but in a slow and kinda erotic way. Very interesting read, but i don't know how to feel about the writing style, rhythm, and structure... Will be looking more into Francis Bacon now. But for now, intenta descansar.
April 15, 2023
Bonkers! Probably my favourite Porter work so far. Some prior knowledge of Bacon is definitely recommend.
January 16, 2021
...it just doesn't really work. It's too slim, it's too fractured. I know Porter was interested in getting past the idea of 'criticism' and into something closer to actual writing-as-painting, but there's just no context for why these words and these sounds sit on the page the way they do. They're cut apart from something. It feels like the text that might have been cut away from something larger and filed away for safekeeping.
With Grief is the Thing With Feathers, the warmth of the text allowed you into his conversations Ted Hughes and his Crow, even if you knew nothing about either of them prior to reading. This... it feels like there's a voice missing. A glance in our direction, missed.
With Grief is the Thing With Feathers, the warmth of the text allowed you into his conversations Ted Hughes and his Crow, even if you knew nothing about either of them prior to reading. This... it feels like there's a voice missing. A glance in our direction, missed.
January 24, 2021
Raw, emotional and completely crazy. I had high expectations and man, can Porter deliver. I can’t wait for the next one to come out. This book read like a feverdream. I was blown away by the rhythm, imagery and subtle repetitions. Porter impresses me every single time. His works are unique and gripping. Its to short to explain what it’s about or why it moved me so, but believe me when I tell you that Porter is a force of nature. If you’re into literary fiction and poetry, you need to have him on your shelves.
March 5, 2021
I think this was a bit too conceptual even for a book by Porter - most of it went straight over my head. For every beautiful sentence there's at least three pages of what-is-going-on-please-make-it-stop. I want to say "it's not the book, it's me", but I'm not so sure this time...
January 7, 2021
A snack. I think I’ll read this a few times. Washes over you.
January 1, 2023
i know these words meant something to some people and i respect that but i felt like i was having a stroke while reading this
January 19, 2021
2,5
The language is beautiful (as is always the case with Porter) and I admire the daring and innovative style, but the novel is difficult to understand and so for me not very enjoyable to read.
The language is beautiful (as is always the case with Porter) and I admire the daring and innovative style, but the novel is difficult to understand and so for me not very enjoyable to read.
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March 1, 2021Short but intense. I actually exhaled after finishing it. I had pre-approved it because it’s Max Porter, but this one just chews and chews the gristle. As a reader, I’m trying to get comfy and work out just what the hell is going on, but it’s like trying to sit on a seat that keeps moving. Language-wise, exquisite as ever. But the disorienting, hyper-focussed jumble of memories, images, musings and exchanges between Bacon and his nurse and visitors to his deathbed makes for a tough read. Pro-tip: if you’re trying to get at what Porter’s trying to get at, you could do worse than look at some of Bacon’s work.
I can’t star ⭐️ this one. I don’t know why. If you trust Porter, read it. If you haven’t read him yet, start with Grief is the Thing with Feathers.
I can’t star ⭐️ this one. I don’t know why. If you trust Porter, read it. If you haven’t read him yet, start with Grief is the Thing with Feathers.
November 15, 2020
Ambitious and weird and warrants a dozen reads. Short enough to justify giving it a few gos if it seems quite obtuse on first inspection. There's real, macabre beauty within it.
October 8, 2024
Did i read this in my college algebra class? Yes
Was it worth it? Yes yes yes
Was it worth it? Yes yes yes
March 17, 2025
'The Death of Max Porter' by Francis Bacon
Bacon
Slim. Written and published in 2021. These are painterly expressions as thought by a writer, so an attempt to put painting into writing, the way a painter goes about accessing a scene and translating it into a work of pigment on ground. This is expressed in the poesy of poetics. Glimpses of prose. A dis-interconnectivity. We are what we scan.
Poetry to a prose beat. It most certainly is not a novel but an attempt to capture a feel through poetic aphorism. Some italic sections which look and sound like quotes from another source, most likely a book on Bacon’s work written by someone that neither really likes Bacon nor his painting. If I search the shelves of books in the studio, gawd knows there’s enough Bacon there, I’ll probably find which book it’s from and the duplicitous critic it fingers.
How many people are there inhabiting this text? And do they all get one speech each?
A slight switch of time; a viewpoint changed to a different aspect and direction, instead of ‘looking south’ we get ‘looking FROM the south’. Just one word becomes a 180° shift.
The unspoken unreferenced images cited are like Bacon’s own collection of ephemera which he used and referred to in his paintings. A bit like Francis’ engagements and off-the-cuff remarks at the Colony Club . And as if before me the text changes like I had managed to part the front of the page from the back of the page revealing a whole new middle world contained within the page; a whole new text but a text that is definitely related to what is written and printed on the front of the page. It was as if I had climbed inside the walls of Flann O'Brien’s house to find the house within the walls of the house and was exploring the hidden chambers therein.
The age of Van Dyck when he painted all those portraits of Charles Stuart, Catholic and Scottish and his family, as a court painter. Who was Van Dyck and how did he come to receive this royal patronage? He is the Velasquez of the English monarchy and it is interesting to compare the court painting of Spain and England given that Velasquez and Van Dyck were contemporaries.
Don’t rush it! Life is a marathon not a series of 100-yard dashes.
It is as if – THAT statement – but yes, it is as if you were looking at Eisenstein’s scenes from ‘The Battleship Potemkin’ which are ALWAYS like a cliché, shown when Bacon’s name is dragged up. Those stills from the film along with Edward Muybridge, text books on anatomy, Un Chien Andalou, illustrations of diseases and multiple pictures of paintings by other artists – Rembrandt, Poussin, Soutine, Picasso and of course Velasquez. Conjuring up images from the lines of the text, images which can only be important to me and which only I can express. Of the balloon contraption invented by José Saramago to fill the pages of ‘Baltasar Blimunda’ which he used to convey Scarlatti across the medieval sky of Portugal.
And Derek Jarman having Caravaggio taunted by his studio models as he lies on a beach dying of lead poisoning presumably picked up from using Flake White – images that name drop periphrastically.
Three pages read. Whoever said , “You don’t understand and cannot understand poetry.” Probably myself. Or some other gaslighter.
Who IS he talking of and to when he speaks of stories of the models? For it is well known that Bacon never painted from life. Is he in the mind of Velasquez in Madrid or Van Dyck in London? Both of these contemporaries’ spring to mind because Bacon was excited by both and all three were incisive in the depiction of character in their portraits – precisely what Bacon sought to achieve in the intensely personal triptychs. Is it the mind of Bacon as he lies semi-comatose and unable to converse? This gives us carte blanche to express whatever we like.
“The martyr Edward and the painter Francis”. An enigmatic statement in its own right given some foundation by a reference to Corfe Castle.
And yet again the Catalan ties to Picasso and the flashcards of the ‘Battleship Potemkin’ rising like a statement which is beyond refutation and significance in the mind of the painter, to become some, by chance, augmented reality in the mind of the future art historian who thus makes a name for herself through a conceptual step which is its own cliché. Bacon himself will not succumb; personally, privately or unconsciously to such gratuitous and fatuous simplicity.
References to the Cornish nanny, the clearer up of all that has gone before; gourmet living with a private life encapsulated by heredity and hierarchical obeisance. The camp cries of an unconscious queer, dull thoughts of seraph-like nuns as models.
‘Just eat from the casserole’ is like a pointed reference to ‘La Vieja friendo huevos’
Eggs
at the same time it is like every Pietà you have ever seen surrounded by camp fey homoeroticism.
Purple hem, grass green, second-hand books, Caesar’s ghost visiting Brutus to foretell of his defeat, yew trees, one-step removed Irish imagery, the inter-connectedness of memory.
Bake on. Bacon. Bay con. A montage of images taken from the paintings which are over and above colouring in. Bits of nonsense collected willy-nilly just like the contents of the studio in South Kensington. As progress extends rightwards, the opacity decreases just like the painting, acquiring a rectitude for the assemblage of strokes through time. Masochistic Bacon dealing the strokes and feeling the lash.
Primrose Hill Bacon. More of a ‘Dilly man really. But it is Bill Brandt. Not Willy Brandt. The shop window down Bond Street. The office in some cobbled mews (muse?) in South Ken. The coloratura of imagery falling out of the frame to land face down on the colour field which is ploughed and ready for the seed. Saskia is Rembrandt’s wife faithfully rendered time and time again. Bresaola air-dried like pigment. Across Oxford Street from the shop front to the Wallace Collection. The connection between Rubens, Peter Paul, Van Dyck, Caravaggio and Velasquez. The cartoons of Raphael with their porcelain skinned cherubs. Fat smiling pink cheeks and arses to compliment the copious tits and thighs of their madonnas. Does the Madonna own a cunt, or is it just pasted on, recently torn out from some skin job wank mag. Unlike Fragonard’s upskirting.
There you go, deceiver. Giving away your ancient historical adolescence. Wank mag indeed! Like a reference to an object found in a George Shaw wood painting. I ask you! When we now surf the crest of the wave (Crest? No one surfs the crest, you sad incomer; perhaps the swelling curve of the shoulder or breast of the wave but never the crest) forward to our own peculiar and particular auto-eroticism, a hand job between cock and mouse. Lying doggo in mid-water like so many corpulent seals. These are no kelpies. Merely the gutter trash of combi vans, dreadlocked as white rastas living on the frontline in Union Street seeking that thrill of the breast curve and falling off instead. I sought my sensory overload on the cliffs, a grimpeur of adrenaline. An ascending (ass ending) coming climax as opposed to the caustic curve exploration. Hop-o’-My-Thumb or Ship of the Desert.
I cannot take the lucid fragments of pure information seriously as Truth given all the surrealism and expressionism that has so far been deposited. Here, abstraction precedes formalism. The scribble comes before the sketch which comes before the design which comes before the working diagram. It is as if degeneration predates evolution. Entropy before Ecstasy.
Venus and Cupid. That lascivious, great, beautiful spunk-filled receptacle which at heart those harpies all wanted to be but were too afraid to embrace. Instead they gave us the Madonna myth full of Calvinist prurience in a Catholic confirmation gown. The virgin gives forth parthenogenetically having avoided penetration by the Father thus evading the sexual taint and remaining pure and feminine whilst pursuant with processional procreation. An evasion of nudge-nudge wink-wink for some miraculous wonder in favour of the promotion of Faith. Those early fathers had the art of deception done to a T and a hoodwinking which has persisted for centuries. I prefer Philip Pulman’s angelic salesman as the putative father but I suppose its all six of one and half a dozen of the other.
A roasted baby done up like a suckling pig. Working the succulent flesh of a chicken wing through the tendons and bones and seared skin. Squeezing out titbits from ungiving mini bones of a pig’s trotter. A stringy armature. Snowball and Napoleon. But I thought there were three little pigs? There were when they were mere weaners at the trough but as they rose through juvenescence, the two conspired to lose the one who was brighter and had leadership potential, thus instigating the first case of swinicide.
The suckling infant at the breast becomes the abiding image of both nouriture and eroticism embracing both worlds of hetero and homo. There are other versions of course, such as Tintoretto’s ‘The Origin of the Milky Way’
Tinto
It stands at the opposite end of the gallery from Titian’s ‘Bacchus and Ariadne’. This has an ultramarine sky from the pigment derived from lapis lazuli which probably came from Afghanistan. Lapis means ‘stone’. Lazuli has a more twisted derivation but is generally taken to mean ‘of the sky’. Hence Titian painted the sky with stone of the sky. There are those that have become Titian obsessed seeing him as ‘the Sun amid small stars’ and yet he stands as one segment of the long strand, preceded by Giorgione and followed by Tintoretto, that strand of master and apprentice. Was Bacon an apprentice? Most certainly not! (though the case might be made that he learnt more than a few things from Roy de Maistre). He was sprung upon the world fully formed like Venus Anadyomene. But did he paint them? Did who paint what? Did anyone see him painting or did he just retire to the upstairs room and get the dwarf to work on another six by eight whilst he sat on the wicker chair in the corner smoking fags and necking champagne getting the occasional accidental paint splatter on his otherwise immaculate breeks. As a painter he was unconscionably private in his craft allowing a whole array of art historians to speculate on his methods in long-winded unknowledgeable guff.
The invention of the interview and the possibility of lying and complete fabrication. Both Michael Peppiatt and David Sylvester tried more or less to illuminate his illusiveness. The structure of the interview seems more like a narcissist’s dream world where the interviewer is at the mercy of the interviewee. Is that which can be so freely given worth having? The whole contract rests on trust between the two, that what is said is not fabrication but is an engagement of honesty. This of course can be bent into any shape you like, but like all quid pro quo’s what is said may come back to bite you in the baws. And wrapped inside that contract of course lies the smugness of fame and the larceny in duplicity.
To copulate. Such a healthily divorced word. Not an element of matrimony about it. A biological word separated from sociological significance. Whereas ‘FUCK’ is like a slap in the face. The former implies reproduction and the mutually desired swapping of gametes. The latter speaks of sex and stimulation. The swapping of gametes is the least desirable outcome.
Daddy wouldn’t buy me a bow wow
Daddy wouldn’t buy me a bow wow
I’ve got a little cat
And I’m very fond of that
But I’d rather have a bow wow too.
Walter Sickert sits in the Alhambra stalls eyeing the upper galleries and laughs at Jack the Ripper theories. He’s more interested in his next victim nailed to the canvas in dull muddy tones of brown and blue with that vital smear of vermilion. Back street Camden Town. Ennui indeed!
Chapter 5 is a pissed episode in the life of a pederast. Finger fucking knuckle deep, full of reach-arounds and tablespoons of semen. A triptych of George Dyer painted in words, some descriptive, others expressionistic, slapping like palette knives on a canvas stretched ground, a hollow drum-like reverberation with a high hat wet shimmery splurge over the top. The empty abattoir floor all crimson and cadmium red drying to Indian. And on the end wall the split, spatchcocked carcass gaping like only Soutine could show. It smells of Billingsgate rather than Smithfields but the aprons are still all spread with gore. Poor Anthony. Sold down the river for a few roubles, the silly sod. And for that he lost his title and access to the old Queen’s pictures. Serves you right for hanging out with that queer red lot in Cambridge. There was a time when you knew enough to keep schtum. But it didn’t last and once they smelt blood, the jig was up. You’re lucky it wasn’t the rope.
I bite down on lead shot whilst eating wild game and drinking glögg at Anna’s Place. The lead shot won’t kill me but the habitual use of Flake White might. It gets everywhere; respiratory, digestively and through the pores of the skin, to leave you wandering around somnambulantly like a Spaghetti Junction urchin condemned by automobile exhaust. It could be worse. It could be that Cadmium Red. Cadmium is really insidious. You just feel like you’ve got the ‘flu. But it’s going underground and attacking your genes. Such that should you procreate, the likelihood of the foetus having deformed limbs, particularly hands, is high. They learnt that at Corby but it took them 20 years to track it down. I use matt varnish for finishing and unperfumed hairspray for fixing. Neither are archival but who cares? I’ll be pushing up daisies when the layers start to yellow and peel back like jaundiced skin.
I had that Crisp in the back of the cab once. Such a bore. All he could talk about was his make-up and money. You can take a fag out of the packet but…….
It only takes one sip and you flip. Maybe that’s the trouble with alcoholics. From bore to pug in less than an eighth of a gill. You never understood what I was trying to do. Never would. Never could. Instead you just moaned and dispensed your platitudes like swine before pearls and carried on opening the next bottle of gin. Yet you always dressed well even if it did all smell of smoke and faeces. You knew at heart it was coming and despite doing your best to spoil it all, you had to go and usurp the ground in the only way that was left open to you. Not even a Roman’s warm bath. Just a cold khazi and a benzodiazepine overdose.
Now its late and the geese are calling on the river. Even Muriel has closed up for the night, Never mind. I know a place over in Covent Garden, a cellar down a steep flight of steps rather than up a stinking stairway. Brown Ale and Bulls Blood. But I’m not sure I can make it that far. I’ll just sit down for a smidge.
He was going to make charcoal he said. Hand-made. That’s what he asked for. But they got the air mix all wrong. And now he’s all ash. Caput Mortuum.
And be it needlessly added, it is a ground-breaking, genre-busting piece of work.
Bacon
Slim. Written and published in 2021. These are painterly expressions as thought by a writer, so an attempt to put painting into writing, the way a painter goes about accessing a scene and translating it into a work of pigment on ground. This is expressed in the poesy of poetics. Glimpses of prose. A dis-interconnectivity. We are what we scan.
Poetry to a prose beat. It most certainly is not a novel but an attempt to capture a feel through poetic aphorism. Some italic sections which look and sound like quotes from another source, most likely a book on Bacon’s work written by someone that neither really likes Bacon nor his painting. If I search the shelves of books in the studio, gawd knows there’s enough Bacon there, I’ll probably find which book it’s from and the duplicitous critic it fingers.
How many people are there inhabiting this text? And do they all get one speech each?
A slight switch of time; a viewpoint changed to a different aspect and direction, instead of ‘looking south’ we get ‘looking FROM the south’. Just one word becomes a 180° shift.
The unspoken unreferenced images cited are like Bacon’s own collection of ephemera which he used and referred to in his paintings. A bit like Francis’ engagements and off-the-cuff remarks at the Colony Club . And as if before me the text changes like I had managed to part the front of the page from the back of the page revealing a whole new middle world contained within the page; a whole new text but a text that is definitely related to what is written and printed on the front of the page. It was as if I had climbed inside the walls of Flann O'Brien’s house to find the house within the walls of the house and was exploring the hidden chambers therein.
The age of Van Dyck when he painted all those portraits of Charles Stuart, Catholic and Scottish and his family, as a court painter. Who was Van Dyck and how did he come to receive this royal patronage? He is the Velasquez of the English monarchy and it is interesting to compare the court painting of Spain and England given that Velasquez and Van Dyck were contemporaries.
Don’t rush it! Life is a marathon not a series of 100-yard dashes.
It is as if – THAT statement – but yes, it is as if you were looking at Eisenstein’s scenes from ‘The Battleship Potemkin’ which are ALWAYS like a cliché, shown when Bacon’s name is dragged up. Those stills from the film along with Edward Muybridge, text books on anatomy, Un Chien Andalou, illustrations of diseases and multiple pictures of paintings by other artists – Rembrandt, Poussin, Soutine, Picasso and of course Velasquez. Conjuring up images from the lines of the text, images which can only be important to me and which only I can express. Of the balloon contraption invented by José Saramago to fill the pages of ‘Baltasar Blimunda’ which he used to convey Scarlatti across the medieval sky of Portugal.
And Derek Jarman having Caravaggio taunted by his studio models as he lies on a beach dying of lead poisoning presumably picked up from using Flake White – images that name drop periphrastically.
Three pages read. Whoever said , “You don’t understand and cannot understand poetry.” Probably myself. Or some other gaslighter.
Who IS he talking of and to when he speaks of stories of the models? For it is well known that Bacon never painted from life. Is he in the mind of Velasquez in Madrid or Van Dyck in London? Both of these contemporaries’ spring to mind because Bacon was excited by both and all three were incisive in the depiction of character in their portraits – precisely what Bacon sought to achieve in the intensely personal triptychs. Is it the mind of Bacon as he lies semi-comatose and unable to converse? This gives us carte blanche to express whatever we like.
“The martyr Edward and the painter Francis”. An enigmatic statement in its own right given some foundation by a reference to Corfe Castle.
And yet again the Catalan ties to Picasso and the flashcards of the ‘Battleship Potemkin’ rising like a statement which is beyond refutation and significance in the mind of the painter, to become some, by chance, augmented reality in the mind of the future art historian who thus makes a name for herself through a conceptual step which is its own cliché. Bacon himself will not succumb; personally, privately or unconsciously to such gratuitous and fatuous simplicity.
References to the Cornish nanny, the clearer up of all that has gone before; gourmet living with a private life encapsulated by heredity and hierarchical obeisance. The camp cries of an unconscious queer, dull thoughts of seraph-like nuns as models.
‘Just eat from the casserole’ is like a pointed reference to ‘La Vieja friendo huevos’
Eggs
at the same time it is like every Pietà you have ever seen surrounded by camp fey homoeroticism.
Purple hem, grass green, second-hand books, Caesar’s ghost visiting Brutus to foretell of his defeat, yew trees, one-step removed Irish imagery, the inter-connectedness of memory.
Bake on. Bacon. Bay con. A montage of images taken from the paintings which are over and above colouring in. Bits of nonsense collected willy-nilly just like the contents of the studio in South Kensington. As progress extends rightwards, the opacity decreases just like the painting, acquiring a rectitude for the assemblage of strokes through time. Masochistic Bacon dealing the strokes and feeling the lash.
Primrose Hill Bacon. More of a ‘Dilly man really. But it is Bill Brandt. Not Willy Brandt. The shop window down Bond Street. The office in some cobbled mews (muse?) in South Ken. The coloratura of imagery falling out of the frame to land face down on the colour field which is ploughed and ready for the seed. Saskia is Rembrandt’s wife faithfully rendered time and time again. Bresaola air-dried like pigment. Across Oxford Street from the shop front to the Wallace Collection. The connection between Rubens, Peter Paul, Van Dyck, Caravaggio and Velasquez. The cartoons of Raphael with their porcelain skinned cherubs. Fat smiling pink cheeks and arses to compliment the copious tits and thighs of their madonnas. Does the Madonna own a cunt, or is it just pasted on, recently torn out from some skin job wank mag. Unlike Fragonard’s upskirting.
There you go, deceiver. Giving away your ancient historical adolescence. Wank mag indeed! Like a reference to an object found in a George Shaw wood painting. I ask you! When we now surf the crest of the wave (Crest? No one surfs the crest, you sad incomer; perhaps the swelling curve of the shoulder or breast of the wave but never the crest) forward to our own peculiar and particular auto-eroticism, a hand job between cock and mouse. Lying doggo in mid-water like so many corpulent seals. These are no kelpies. Merely the gutter trash of combi vans, dreadlocked as white rastas living on the frontline in Union Street seeking that thrill of the breast curve and falling off instead. I sought my sensory overload on the cliffs, a grimpeur of adrenaline. An ascending (ass ending) coming climax as opposed to the caustic curve exploration. Hop-o’-My-Thumb or Ship of the Desert.
I cannot take the lucid fragments of pure information seriously as Truth given all the surrealism and expressionism that has so far been deposited. Here, abstraction precedes formalism. The scribble comes before the sketch which comes before the design which comes before the working diagram. It is as if degeneration predates evolution. Entropy before Ecstasy.
Venus and Cupid. That lascivious, great, beautiful spunk-filled receptacle which at heart those harpies all wanted to be but were too afraid to embrace. Instead they gave us the Madonna myth full of Calvinist prurience in a Catholic confirmation gown. The virgin gives forth parthenogenetically having avoided penetration by the Father thus evading the sexual taint and remaining pure and feminine whilst pursuant with processional procreation. An evasion of nudge-nudge wink-wink for some miraculous wonder in favour of the promotion of Faith. Those early fathers had the art of deception done to a T and a hoodwinking which has persisted for centuries. I prefer Philip Pulman’s angelic salesman as the putative father but I suppose its all six of one and half a dozen of the other.
A roasted baby done up like a suckling pig. Working the succulent flesh of a chicken wing through the tendons and bones and seared skin. Squeezing out titbits from ungiving mini bones of a pig’s trotter. A stringy armature. Snowball and Napoleon. But I thought there were three little pigs? There were when they were mere weaners at the trough but as they rose through juvenescence, the two conspired to lose the one who was brighter and had leadership potential, thus instigating the first case of swinicide.
The suckling infant at the breast becomes the abiding image of both nouriture and eroticism embracing both worlds of hetero and homo. There are other versions of course, such as Tintoretto’s ‘The Origin of the Milky Way’
Tinto
It stands at the opposite end of the gallery from Titian’s ‘Bacchus and Ariadne’. This has an ultramarine sky from the pigment derived from lapis lazuli which probably came from Afghanistan. Lapis means ‘stone’. Lazuli has a more twisted derivation but is generally taken to mean ‘of the sky’. Hence Titian painted the sky with stone of the sky. There are those that have become Titian obsessed seeing him as ‘the Sun amid small stars’ and yet he stands as one segment of the long strand, preceded by Giorgione and followed by Tintoretto, that strand of master and apprentice. Was Bacon an apprentice? Most certainly not! (though the case might be made that he learnt more than a few things from Roy de Maistre). He was sprung upon the world fully formed like Venus Anadyomene. But did he paint them? Did who paint what? Did anyone see him painting or did he just retire to the upstairs room and get the dwarf to work on another six by eight whilst he sat on the wicker chair in the corner smoking fags and necking champagne getting the occasional accidental paint splatter on his otherwise immaculate breeks. As a painter he was unconscionably private in his craft allowing a whole array of art historians to speculate on his methods in long-winded unknowledgeable guff.
The invention of the interview and the possibility of lying and complete fabrication. Both Michael Peppiatt and David Sylvester tried more or less to illuminate his illusiveness. The structure of the interview seems more like a narcissist’s dream world where the interviewer is at the mercy of the interviewee. Is that which can be so freely given worth having? The whole contract rests on trust between the two, that what is said is not fabrication but is an engagement of honesty. This of course can be bent into any shape you like, but like all quid pro quo’s what is said may come back to bite you in the baws. And wrapped inside that contract of course lies the smugness of fame and the larceny in duplicity.
To copulate. Such a healthily divorced word. Not an element of matrimony about it. A biological word separated from sociological significance. Whereas ‘FUCK’ is like a slap in the face. The former implies reproduction and the mutually desired swapping of gametes. The latter speaks of sex and stimulation. The swapping of gametes is the least desirable outcome.
Daddy wouldn’t buy me a bow wow
Daddy wouldn’t buy me a bow wow
I’ve got a little cat
And I’m very fond of that
But I’d rather have a bow wow too.
Walter Sickert sits in the Alhambra stalls eyeing the upper galleries and laughs at Jack the Ripper theories. He’s more interested in his next victim nailed to the canvas in dull muddy tones of brown and blue with that vital smear of vermilion. Back street Camden Town. Ennui indeed!
Chapter 5 is a pissed episode in the life of a pederast. Finger fucking knuckle deep, full of reach-arounds and tablespoons of semen. A triptych of George Dyer painted in words, some descriptive, others expressionistic, slapping like palette knives on a canvas stretched ground, a hollow drum-like reverberation with a high hat wet shimmery splurge over the top. The empty abattoir floor all crimson and cadmium red drying to Indian. And on the end wall the split, spatchcocked carcass gaping like only Soutine could show. It smells of Billingsgate rather than Smithfields but the aprons are still all spread with gore. Poor Anthony. Sold down the river for a few roubles, the silly sod. And for that he lost his title and access to the old Queen’s pictures. Serves you right for hanging out with that queer red lot in Cambridge. There was a time when you knew enough to keep schtum. But it didn’t last and once they smelt blood, the jig was up. You’re lucky it wasn’t the rope.
I bite down on lead shot whilst eating wild game and drinking glögg at Anna’s Place. The lead shot won’t kill me but the habitual use of Flake White might. It gets everywhere; respiratory, digestively and through the pores of the skin, to leave you wandering around somnambulantly like a Spaghetti Junction urchin condemned by automobile exhaust. It could be worse. It could be that Cadmium Red. Cadmium is really insidious. You just feel like you’ve got the ‘flu. But it’s going underground and attacking your genes. Such that should you procreate, the likelihood of the foetus having deformed limbs, particularly hands, is high. They learnt that at Corby but it took them 20 years to track it down. I use matt varnish for finishing and unperfumed hairspray for fixing. Neither are archival but who cares? I’ll be pushing up daisies when the layers start to yellow and peel back like jaundiced skin.
I had that Crisp in the back of the cab once. Such a bore. All he could talk about was his make-up and money. You can take a fag out of the packet but…….
It only takes one sip and you flip. Maybe that’s the trouble with alcoholics. From bore to pug in less than an eighth of a gill. You never understood what I was trying to do. Never would. Never could. Instead you just moaned and dispensed your platitudes like swine before pearls and carried on opening the next bottle of gin. Yet you always dressed well even if it did all smell of smoke and faeces. You knew at heart it was coming and despite doing your best to spoil it all, you had to go and usurp the ground in the only way that was left open to you. Not even a Roman’s warm bath. Just a cold khazi and a benzodiazepine overdose.
Now its late and the geese are calling on the river. Even Muriel has closed up for the night, Never mind. I know a place over in Covent Garden, a cellar down a steep flight of steps rather than up a stinking stairway. Brown Ale and Bulls Blood. But I’m not sure I can make it that far. I’ll just sit down for a smidge.
He was going to make charcoal he said. Hand-made. That’s what he asked for. But they got the air mix all wrong. And now he’s all ash. Caput Mortuum.
And be it needlessly added, it is a ground-breaking, genre-busting piece of work.
March 9, 2021
Dat ik niet goed weet wat ik van deze experimentele poëtische "rant" tijdens een koortsdroom moet denken. Max Porters vorige boeken Grief is the thing with feathers en Lanny waren al heel karakteristiek en toonden al zijn schitterend taalgebruik. Dat hij kan schrijven staat buiten kijf.
De koortsdroom is die van de Iers-Britse expressionistische schilder Francis Bacon die op zijn doodsbed ligt. (Niet zijn laat 16de eeuwse gelijknamige voorvader die jurist en filosoof was.)
Hier benadert Porter het schrijven net als expressionistisch schilderen: hier en daar een klodder en dan maar in vorm vegen. Hij doet dit aan de hand van 7 fictieve schilderijen van de schilder in kwestie, soms laat hij hem ook met zijn zuster spreken die bij zijn bed zou moeten waken.
Maar wat is er niet over mijn hoofd gegaan? Dit maakt mij als lezer onzeker. Een schrijver die kan schrijven maar een lezer die niet altijd even goed weet wat ze juist aan het lezen is hier. Euh, dan hou ik de kerk maar in het midden.
De koortsdroom is die van de Iers-Britse expressionistische schilder Francis Bacon die op zijn doodsbed ligt. (Niet zijn laat 16de eeuwse gelijknamige voorvader die jurist en filosoof was.)
Hier benadert Porter het schrijven net als expressionistisch schilderen: hier en daar een klodder en dan maar in vorm vegen. Hij doet dit aan de hand van 7 fictieve schilderijen van de schilder in kwestie, soms laat hij hem ook met zijn zuster spreken die bij zijn bed zou moeten waken.
Maar wat is er niet over mijn hoofd gegaan? Dit maakt mij als lezer onzeker. Een schrijver die kan schrijven maar een lezer die niet altijd even goed weet wat ze juist aan het lezen is hier. Euh, dan hou ik de kerk maar in het midden.
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