Tell Me About Your Mother Finally made it to se…
Tell Me About Your Mother
Finally made it to see Lucien Freud at Tate Britain with Helen yesterday. Freud is often acclaimed for his ability to portray the hues of flesh using an almost technicolour palette, but there’s something strangely drained-looking about most of his subjects - pallid, almost death-like, in poses that are often not only vulnerable but extremely awkward-looking. There’s something distinctly voyeuristic about looking at Freud’s paintings because they seem so intimate and virtually always quite bleak too - there are few smiles. Each of his subjects seems to be locked into their own thoughts, even when they stare straight at the viewer. Freud’s own self-portraits, however, which are amongst my favourites, have none of this vulnerability - even the full-length nudes of himself. His eyes always seem to disappear in the shadow beneath his brow.
This would be the point where I conclude with a pithy summary, but I don’t have one.
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