British painter and grandson of Sigmund Freud, Lucian Freud, died Wednesday.
I felt a terrible pang when I heard the news yesterday. Somehow Lucian Freud got mixed up in my past, with a very specific time in my life that was full of emotional intensity. I never knew Lucian Freud, of course. I saw his paintings for the first time at the Tate Gallery when I was 26 and engrossed in a heady, trans-Atlantic romance. Already high on the sensory overload of being in love for the first time, his work made a profound impact on me. Soemthing about his paintings seemed so full of adoration - I could feel the affection and admiration he had for his subjects. Sue Tilly, a benefits supervisor who appeared in many of his paintings (and became known as "Fat Sue"), was a particular favorite; his doting hand lovingly painted every fold of skin, every blemish, every grubby heel as if in celebration. Of Leigh Bowery, the oversized transvestite performance artist, fetish designer and muse, Freud said, "I found him perfectly beautiful."
He painted the winsome Kate Moss naked and pregnant, and captured Queen Elizabeth II on canvas (fully clothed, thank God), but I like to think he rejoiced in the homely, the imperfect, and the marginalized. When I look at his paintings, I rejoice in them too.
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Separately, I'd like to thank you for all the wonderful comments you left for me over the last few days. I am so touched and so buoyed by your response. Much love, P.
