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T he year 1971 was pivotal for Francis Bacon, and one that ultimately led to the creation of his most celebrated self-portraits. His eagerly anticipated Grand Palais Retrospective Exhibition opened in Paris on 26 October 1971, causing a sensation—but not the one the artist had hoped for. At the sumptuous opening dinner at the famous Le Train Bleu restaurant, news slowly spread of the tragic suicide of George Dyer, Bacon’s former lover and the model for much of the work at the Grand Palais retrospective. In that moment, art, myth, and reality conflated in an uncanny and profoundly tragic way. Undoubtedly, the exhibition was a moment of triumph and Bacon was heralded as the leading contemporary figurative artist in the world. But the moment was stained and complicated by grief and guilt.
Bacon, at this point 61 years old, returned to London alone. At his studio in Reece Mews he began to process his loss. Fueled by a potent cocktail of grief and self-examination in the years that followed, he created exceptional work and revisited one of art history’s most enduring subjects with renewed force, self-portraiture. In 1972 alone, he completed seven single-panel self-portraits—an excellent example of which is being offered in New York on 16 November as part of The Now and Contemporary Evening Auction. In his six-decade career, Bacon produced 53 named self-portraits. More than half of these were completed in the eight-year period between 1971 and 1979.
During this time, Bacon was moving between painting self-portraits and working on larger canvases, which are now known as the ‘Black Triptychs.’ Through this series, Bacon formally replays, recasts, and renews Dyer’s death at the Hôtel des Saint-Pères. According to Martin Harrison, Editor of The Francis Bacon Catalogue Raisonné and Director of Publishing at the Francis Bacon Estate, he worked from the same John Deakin photographs that he had used before Dyer’s death. The coeval self-portraits are infused with the same potent energy.
In the self-portrait series of 1972, Bacon fearlessly questions and experiences himself on canvas—perhaps, in this moment of isolation, even finds refuge in his own company. These subjects which occupied him—Dyer’s traumatic death and his own image—were two sides of the same coin. They informed one another: Both giving energy and making huge emotional demands of an artist who was painting not only at his artistic apogee, but with an urgent need for resolution and insight. Perhaps these paintings helped him simply to survive.
Bacon’s self-portraits certainly went beyond his superficial appearance, and his almost X-ray vision scrutinized his interiority. Throughout this iterative, intricate process, Bacon layered multiple images and time frames into his compositions. “His approach was both additive and reductive, adding layers to his pictures as he reduced his subjects and in this case himself,” says Harrison.
Self-Portrait, 1972 is one of the seven single panels painted in 1972. The black background—present in all of them—defines the subject of the work and gives a timeless monumentality to the panels, allowing them to take their place in history. The skillful chromatic handling of the pigments reveals Bacon’s signature painterly style, executed with exceptional potency on an intimate scale. Self-Portrait, 1972 captures the artist’s self-examination with unflinching raw honesty and courage. Powerful emotions that are normally fleeting are preserved and presented to the spectator in perpetuity.
“Bacon’s genius as an artist is no more intimately realized than in his 1972 self-portraits. This prolific period of self-investigation imbued these works with the same haunting spirit as his grandest triptychs. He was as unforgiving of himself as he was his other subjects, as if through searing honesty he could purge himself of his guilt. Some works express visual beauty or an aesthetic theory; these confess a defenseless need to paint.”
Bacon’s practice was uninhibited and, crucially, unobserved by spectators or assistants. As he explained to the art critic and curator David Sylvester, he did not want to practice in front of his subjects “so that they could witness the injury that I do them.” Clues emerged from the vast amounts of reference material found in his studio after his death. Harrison believes that Bacon’s self-portraits were achieved by a combination of photography and mirror work. “It’s possible that Bacon used the photo booth at South Kensington Tube Station to pose privately to achieve the profound self-interrogation and intimacy that appears in Self-Portrait, 1972.”
What these remarkable and intense paintings clearly reveal is the disconnect between how Bacon perceived himself and how he appeared to others. There is the much-documented Francis Bacon we think we know: the confident, upbeat bon viveur of the ‘gilded gutter’ and uncrowned Prince of Soho. Then there is the vulnerable creature on canvas who can barely open his eyes to meet his own gaze, let alone ours.
Michael Peppiatt, Bacon’s friend and biographer, gives some idea what it was like to be the subject of Bacon’s gaze. “He had these very pale blue eyes and they were relentless. His gaze was something that made you wriggle; it was as though he was looking into and through you and there was nowhere to hide.” Peppiatt believes that this deep searching quality and curiosity was also present in the way the artist processed information. “There is no question that Bacon was able to subject himself to the same scrutiny that he used on others. He was harder on himself than any of his subjects—he felt he could take it and he probably could.”
