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A review by hattifattener
Francis Bacon in Your Blood by Michael Peppiatt
4.0
This book manages to be something I've never seen before, and in that sense it is great.
It is a book written by a member of the subject's entourage, groomed over decades for the role of biographer. Francis Bacon is richly and intimately presented as the kind of self-conscious and dominating personality capable of that kind of control and ambition. There's real beauty and poetry in the way Peppiatt weaves dense layer upon layer of Bacon's repetitions. They aren't embarrassing accidents in Bacon's mouth or Peppiatt's accounting of them, but intentional thematic emphases in the depiction of a man who said (many times), "I am the most artificial man you'll ever meet."
The first plunge into the dense, smoky, Soho nightlife of this book is jarring because of how immediate and intimate the conversation and relationships are. "Is this a biography? Is this more like a biographical screenplay?" But over time, with admirable and patient writing, the special circumstances that allowed for such confident, close reporting, are convincingly illustrated. Peppiatt is adopted as a puppy by a brilliant man consistently jealous of his image and legacy. Bacon spends every night feeding hangers-on feasts, champagne, and ever more polished quips and stories. He requires that, in return, they remain with a feeling of indebtedness.
Peppiatt is largely self-aware of his lifetime role as indebted. He eats the man's food, drinks the man's champagne, takes the man's (sometimes substantial and life-changing) handouts, and banks on the man's connections. This self-awareness is very much in harmony with Bacon's attitude on life and the way he lived, and the complement elevates the biography. However, it doubles the mess of the bitter end of Bacon's life. The mountain of privilege that has built over the course of the book/Peppiatt's life as Bacon's mentee eclipses his self-awareness for want of the moral substance others earn through real life.
But more than Bacon's material gifts, Peppiatt consumed the essence of the artist, at first naturally, easily, and unconsciously as a young man, then with greater purpose. Peppiatt has made an art of presenting Francis Bacon in a way that feels as raw, artificial, and intimate as his paintings; that makes you see the paintings anew. That is something special. That is definitely worth reading.
It is a book written by a member of the subject's entourage, groomed over decades for the role of biographer. Francis Bacon is richly and intimately presented as the kind of self-conscious and dominating personality capable of that kind of control and ambition. There's real beauty and poetry in the way Peppiatt weaves dense layer upon layer of Bacon's repetitions. They aren't embarrassing accidents in Bacon's mouth or Peppiatt's accounting of them, but intentional thematic emphases in the depiction of a man who said (many times), "I am the most artificial man you'll ever meet."
The first plunge into the dense, smoky, Soho nightlife of this book is jarring because of how immediate and intimate the conversation and relationships are. "Is this a biography? Is this more like a biographical screenplay?" But over time, with admirable and patient writing, the special circumstances that allowed for such confident, close reporting, are convincingly illustrated. Peppiatt is adopted as a puppy by a brilliant man consistently jealous of his image and legacy. Bacon spends every night feeding hangers-on feasts, champagne, and ever more polished quips and stories. He requires that, in return, they remain with a feeling of indebtedness.
Peppiatt is largely self-aware of his lifetime role as indebted. He eats the man's food, drinks the man's champagne, takes the man's (sometimes substantial and life-changing) handouts, and banks on the man's connections. This self-awareness is very much in harmony with Bacon's attitude on life and the way he lived, and the complement elevates the biography. However, it doubles the mess of the bitter end of Bacon's life. The mountain of privilege that has built over the course of the book/Peppiatt's life as Bacon's mentee eclipses his self-awareness for want of the moral substance others earn through real life.
But more than Bacon's material gifts, Peppiatt consumed the essence of the artist, at first naturally, easily, and unconsciously as a young man, then with greater purpose. Peppiatt has made an art of presenting Francis Bacon in a way that feels as raw, artificial, and intimate as his paintings; that makes you see the paintings anew. That is something special. That is definitely worth reading.