In this age of pop music, hip hop, Twitter, Facebook and even Google doodles, I fully appreciate that the notion of an old portrait artist being a celebrity seems rather quaint. Yet there’s no denying that artist Lucian Freud was an A-list celebrity.
Granted, the fact that he was the grandson of one of the most celebrated men of the 20th century, Sigmund Freud, had a great deal to do with his popularity. But Lucian’s celebrity was also greatly enhanced by the fact that he was so utterly disdainful of the media outlets other artists rely on to cultivate their celebrity status. Actually, the more he shunned fame, the richer, more famous and honored he became. In this truly enviable respect only Greta Garbo was his peer.
Then, of course, there was his remarkable talent. With him, the portrait was the thing. And it spoke volumes that each one generated as much media buzz in the art world as a Lindsay Lohan court appearance generates in la-la land.
What made his fully-body, often naked portraits so unique and therefore coveted was the way he eschewed all of the tricks other artists used to flatter their subjects. Instead, he seemed particularly interested in capturing on canvas all of the insecurities they harbored about their looks – with bags under the eyes, double chins, love handles, and cellulite all figuring quite prominently.
Yet never was ugliness so beautiful than when it was painted by Lucian Freud.
I like it if people say very contradictory things about my work: ‘It’s very ugly.’ ‘It’s very beautiful.’
(Freud as quoted by The Washington Post, July 22, 2011)
Perhaps this sojourn, with every stroke, into the deep recesses of the psyche of those he chose to sit on his couch was an unwitting way of paying homage to his grandfather.
But it was indeed a privilege to be laid bare by him. For nothing increased his professional reputation quite like refusing requests by such notables as Princess Diana and Pope John Paul II to be painted.
Apropos of this, though, I am constrained to wonder if racism had anything to with the subjects he chose. After all, insofar as I can tell, the only thing black he ever painted was the black eye he sported in one of his very famous self-portraits (pictured above left). He produced hundreds of works, so I could be wrong. Therefore, I invite anyone to disabuse me of this impression.…
Anyway, to give you a sense of how coveted and valuable his paintings were / are, consider that one of them, “Benefits Supervisor Sleeping” (pictured above right), was sold for $33.6 million at auction in 2008. And since nothing increases the value of a work of art quite like the artist dying, owners of his paintings are sitting pretty well today.
Lucian Freud died a week ago today in London. He was 88.
Farewell, Lucian.
Special note on Amy Winehouse
Based on emails I’ve received in recent days, many of you probably expected me to publish a tribute to the drug-addled Amy Winehouse, who died on Saturday.
But I’m not writing about her all too predictable death for the same, obvious reason I would not bother writing about Charlie Sheen’s if he were to die today.
Frankly, there was nothing unique or pioneering about Amy Winehouse. Admittedly, she had a great, soulful voice … for a white girl. But a blue-eyed soul sister named Teena Marie had already been there and done that. Not to mention her own peers like Lady Gaga, Adele, and Joss Stone….
In fact, the only thing that really distinguished Amy, and contributed to her celebrity, was her apparent determination to follow the self-destructive path to early death that was trail blazed by more accomplished artists like Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, and Kurt Cobain.
The fact that, like them, she died at age 27 is not reason enough to imbue her with the legendary status they earned. And it seems a dubious honor at best that her death accords her membership in the macabre “27 Club“.
Her life was a train wreck just waiting to happen. And, truth be told, many fans now mourning her death found this perversely entertaining. Simply put, her popularity and album sales had almost as much to do with her fucked-up lifestyle as with her smoke-tuned voice.
Like Marilyn Monroe, she was discovered by one of her employees sprawled out dead in her London apartment. Her toxicology report is pending. But since foul play has been ruled out and a 27-year-old hardly ever drops dead of natural causes, it’s reasonable to deduce that her death was drug and/or booze related.
May she rest in peace.