‘Trying to Trap the Fact’: The Distorted Truth of Francis Bacon

Head VI

‘We are all animals if you care to think about it. It’s just that some people are more aware of the fact than others.’
Francis Bacon

I recently visited an excellent exhibition of the work of Francis Bacon. (‘Man and Beast’ is at the Royal Academy, London until 17 April.)

It was an unsettling experience.

Bacon painted crucified carcases, snarling Furies, beast-people caught in cuboid cages; dogs, chimpanzees and owls trapped and snared, howling and baying; bullfights, bestial heads and screaming Popes; writhing, twisting, tormented lovers; butchered meat, muscle and sinew, blood and bone. 

‘We are meat, we are potential carcases.’

Bacon’s work was all physical pain and mental anguish; violence and voyeurism. He wanted to convey to us that the veneer of civilisation is thin and fragile; that we are driven by carnal impulses; that we are essentially beasts. He revealed the animal within, caught between rage and fear, in tortured isolation. His aim, he said, was to ‘unlock the valves of feeling and return the onlooker to life more violently.’

Sometimes the horror in his paintings is brought home by the presence of the everyday: of flowers, umbrellas and hats; of chaises longues and tubular steel furniture. (Bacon spent a brief period in the late 1920s as an interior designer.) This is the banality of evil.

‘Most people live a kind of veiled life and tend to disguise what they are, what they want, what they really feel.’

Fragment of a Cucifixion

Bacon’s fascination with man’s animal nature and his dark vision of life were perhaps shaped by his upbringing in County Kildare, Ireland. Born in 1909, he was the son of a retired army officer who trained horses, had a violent temper and a taste for field sports. The young Bacon suffered from chronic asthma, a condition that was triggered and amplified by contact with animals. 

‘The whole horror of life, of one thing living off another.’

No doubt Bacon was also influenced by the slaughter of World War I; by the debauchery he saw in the clubs, bars and brothels of Berlin and Paris between the wars; by his time spent as an ARP warden during the Blitz, recovering bodies from London bomb sites; by consciousness of the Holocaust and the atom bomb; by his trips to the bush in southern Africa; by his adventures in the dark alleys of Soho.

‘I have looked at books of wild animals… because those images excite me and every so often one of them may come up to me and suggest some way to use the human body.’

Bacon was also inspired by his diverse interests. He was an enthusiast for art history, admiring Michelangelo, Velazquez, Rembrandt and Goya. He treasured Eadweard Muybridge’s pioneering studies of animal motion. He read anatomical texts and medical manuals, magazines of wildlife photography and books on big game hunting and bullfighting. He had a passion for Egyptology and classical literature.

‘Reading translations of Aeschylus opens up the valves of sensation for me.’

Study of a Dog 1952

Bacon channelled all this stimulus into his work. For example, his repeated representations of a primal scream were informed by Poussin’s ‘Massacre of the Innocents’ and the terror-stricken shriek of the nursemaid in Eisenstein’s ‘Battleship Potemkin.’

‘I did hope one day to make the best painting of the human cry.’

I was particularly struck by the lateral leaps Bacon took from inspiration to execution. A 17th century Velasquez painting of Pope Innocent X, in all his pomp and power, becomes an expression of existential pain and panic. A barn owl in flight becomes a crucified figure. A diving pelican becomes a Fury. Two wrestlers become two lovers. 

There is a lesson for us all here. We should not expect inspiration to be literal and logical. Rather it catches us off guard, from out of left field. It creeps up on us where and when we least expect it. We often talk about creative leaps. Strategists must leap too.

At first Bacon’s work seems all contorted, twisted and warped. But then we realise that with all this distortion he is seeking to capture a brutal truth about sensation. What he is saying is crystal clear.

‘I think the very great artists were not trying to express themselves. They were trying to trap the fact.’

'I never thought that this day would ever come
When your words and your touch just struck me numb.
Oh and it's plain to see that it's dead.
The thing swims in blood and it's cold stoney dead.
It's so hard not to feel ashamed
Of the loving, living games we play
Each day.
The hardest walk you could ever take
Is the walk you take from A to B to C.’

The Jesus and Mary Chain, 'The Hardest Walk’ (J & W Reid)

No. 360

It Only Takes a Minute To Lose a Pitch: A Tough Time for Optimists

Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn ‘The Sampling Officials’

'We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorns have roses.’
Alphonse Karr, ‘A Tour Round My Garden’

I consider myself an optimist.

I was certainly optimistic about our pitch for the prestige pen brand. We had assigned a top team and worked really hard over the previous six weeks. We had a pedigree in the sector, and, what’s more, we had arrived at a compelling proposal.

Luxury goods the world over had been de-coupled from the expertise and craft that originally justified their premium. They had been reduced to names and logos, gold and glitter, soulless fixtures in airport retail. If appointed, we would re-harness our pen brand to the skill and artistry of its design and manufacture, and embed it in a community of like-minded craftspeople and makers. We would re-position it within the emergent world of artisanal care.

We presented in an airless room in an anodyne airport hotel. There were neatly arranged water glasses, nondescript mints, blank notepads and a dispiriting flip chart. Arrayed before us was a panel of suited executives from the key sales regions around the world. Our audience looked on - stern, impassive, pokerfaced. One talked quietly into his mobile phone every now and again. Another popped out for something important.

Undeterred, we gesticulated and enthused. We were animated and energetic. We radiated positivity. I nodded my head a lot. 

We had been told to pay particular attention to the Chinese representative, as he carried a lot of commercial clout. But he wasn’t giving anything away. 

A trolley of mayonnaise-soaked sandwiches was brought in.

Our Creative Director took to the floor with a flourish, and presented our idea across a range of platforms, tasks and territories. The work was elegant, thoughtful and intimate. It completely eschewed the tired category conventions of bling, gloss and glamour. 

I summarised our pitch and invited questions. 

There was a stony silence. 

At length the Chinese representative put his hand up, gestured towards our creative work and, with measured enunciation, asked:

‘Where is the luxury in this?’

I mumbled something about new prestige codes, opinion leadership and the artisanal aesthetic. But, of course, I knew immediately that with those six words we were defeated. 

It only takes a minute to lose a pitch.

Ours is a curious business. All that industry and innovation, argument and anxiety; all that energy and enthusiasm, those late nights and early mornings - they can just go up in a puff of a smoke. 

What a waste.

'Optimism is the madness of insisting that all is well when we are miserable.’
Voltaire

We are, of course, sustained by our optimistic outlook, our relentless positivity. Upwards and onwards. Let’s learn the lessons. Let’s get up and do it again. 

But relentless positivity can be exhausting. And through the pandemic I’ve been struck by the fact that optimism can sometimes be a curse. I’ve personally been steadfastly optimistic: expecting waves to recede, targets to be met, data to improve. And I’ve been consistently wrong all year. 

It takes its toll.

The Stockdale Paradox was popularized by Jim Collins in his book ‘Good to Great.’

James Stockdale was a US naval officer who, while flying on a mission in the Vietnam War, was shot down and taken captive. He was held in the Hỏa Lò Prison (the infamous ‘Hanoi Hilton’) for the next seven-and-a-half years, and was routinely tortured and denied medical attention. 

When afterwards he reflected on his traumatic experiences, he concluded that the people less likely to survive were the optimists. They pinned their hopes on getting out by Easter, and then Thanksgiving, and then Christmas. And each time they were disappointed. 

‘They died of a broken heart.’

The Stockdale Paradox suggests that, to get through an ordeal, we must confront the reality of our situation, however grave it may be; that we must find an appropriate balance between realism and optimism.

‘You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the end - which you can never afford to lose - with the discipline to confront the most brutal facts of your current reality, whatever they might be.’

Admiral James Stockdale

We should have known from the first chemistry meeting for that prestige pen brand - from the bureaucratic process and fragmented hierarchy; from the sales-driven culture and conservative communication to-date - that this was not a pitch for us.

But hope can make you blind.

‘Pessimism is the one defence I have against optimism.’
Arthur Miller

Of course, we should continue to regard the inherent optimism of creative professionals as an asset. Optimism catalyses camaraderie and inspires innovation; it prompts industry, ambition, and often success. But we should also nurture Resilient Realists: people with the objectivity properly to assess a situation; and the fortitude to endure disappointment.

As the old saying goes,‘we should hope for the best and prepare for the worst.’

'Son, don't put your hat
Where you can't reach it.
It doesn't make no sense.
Good things come
For those who work hard for it.
Adjust yourself
To the life you can afford to live.
The road to the top
Is long and winding.
A foolish dog
Barks at the flyin’ bird.
Patient man
Ride donkey.
Cool Out Son.
Cool Out Son.
Junior Murvin, 'Cool Out Son' (J Gibson)

No. 320

The Rhythm of Change: Linocut, The Democratic Medium

Wet Afternoon by Ethel Spowers

‘An art of the people for their homes.’
Claude Flight

One of my favourite exhibitions of 2019 considered the art of the linocut. (‘Cutting Edge: Modernist British Printmaking’ was at the Dulwich Picture Gallery some while ago, but you can still buy the excellent book that accompanied the exhibition.)

Linoleum, or lino, is a cheap, hardwearing and easily cleaned floor covering invented in the 1860s by the Englishman Frederick Walton. It is made by fixing a mixture of cork and linseed oil onto a canvas backing. In the early twentieth century German printmakers developed the technique of the linocut: a design is cut into a linoleum sheet with a sharp knife or V-shaped chisel; the lino is inked with a roller and then pressed onto paper or fabric. 

Between 1925 and the start of the Second World War the Grosvenor School of Modern Art in Pimlico was the centre of a pioneering movement in British printmaking. The group was led by visionary teacher and artist Claude Flight, who believed that the linocut, with its affordable materials and accessible techniques, was a truly democratic medium. 

‘The linocut is different to the other printing mediums. It has no tradition of technique behind it, so that the student can go forward without thinking of what Bewick and Rembrandt did before. He can make his own tradition, and coming at a time like the present when new ideas and ideals are shaping themselves out of apparent chaos, he can do his share in building up a new and more vital art of tomorrow.’ 
Claude Flight, 1934

Whence and Wither by Cyril Power

The particular nature of the linocut demanded strong lines and a reduced colour palette. It predisposed printmakers to convey patterns, rhythms and movement. And Flight’s modernist, egalitarian ideals prompted his students to articulate themes of contemporary urban life.

And so we see the serried ranks of rush hour commuters descending into the underground gloom, all hatted with hunched shoulders. The tube carriages are cramped and grim faced. The red buses crowd down Regent Street, past the policeman and the Bovril advert. Umbrellas are held like legionary shields to the wind and rain. There are flat-capped workers digging the road, laying cable, sticking up posters. Porters bustle past us, flower girls stoop under their heavy panniers. 

Time to relax and put our feet up. Deckchairs in the park, parasols, newspapers and sweet tea. Let’s sit back and watch the horse guards. And then the city turns to play. There’s tennis, rugby and hockey; skiing, skating and sledging. The speedway riders lean into the corner, the footballers lean into the tackle. The merry-go-round spins faster, the rumba band kicks in. And so at last the dancers hit the stage. 

Do you remember?

The linocuts of the Grosvenor School capture the dynamism of the industrial age, the pulsating tempo of city streets, the teeming life of the public transport system, the vibrant leisure pursuits of working people. This is the modern world, thrilling and vigorous; buzzing, humming and fizzing. It’s the rhythm of change.

Speedway by Sybil Andrews

These were fresh themes for British art. Since linocuts came from such humble origins, they were not taken seriously by the art establishment And so their creators felt free from conventional definitions of what constituted appropriate subject matter. 

What’s more, because the linocut printmakers were unencumbered by traditional art school training, they were liberated to explore contemporary styles of expression: Futurism, Vorticism and Cubism.

Flight ensured that the doors to the linocut medium were open as wide as possible. He published manuals and lectured extensively. And you needed no qualifications to attend his classes.

‘Sometimes in his classes it is hard to remember that he is teaching, so complete is the camaraderie between him and his students. He treats them as fellow-artists rather than pupils, discusses with them and suggests to them, never dictates or enforces. At the same time he is so full of enthusiasm for his subject, and his ideas are so clear and reasoned, that it is impossible for his students not to be influenced by them.’
Artist Eveline Syme on Claude Flight

Flight teaches us that we can transform any artform by placing it in the hands of ordinary people: Create a medium that is affordable and available. Consider subjects that are real and relevant. Communicate in a style that is contemporary and current. 

Simple.

Flight had imagined that the linocut would be accessible not just to ordinary artists, but also to ordinary buyers. However, the Grosvenor House prints were so popular that on average they sold for 2 guineas apiece - which was about the average weekly wage at the time. Flight was a victim of his own success.

‘What was wrong with me was that I had to see
All of the changes I’d put you through.
So now I’m changing for you.
Changing.
Really, really, really, really
Changing, girl.’

The Chi Lites, ‘Changing for You’ (A Calvard, A Reynolds, E Davis, F Reynolds, L Simon, Jr.)

No. 289

Living Life in the Wrong Order: Jack Cardiff and the Integrated Narrative

‘In my mind this light is the light in which cinema was invented.’
Martin Scorsese, on Jack Cardiff

I recently watched a documentary (‘Cameraman,’ 2010) and a play (Terry Johnson’s ‘Prism’) about the legendary cinematographer, Jack Cardiff (1914-2009).

Cardiff began his life in film as a clapper boy in the silent era. He went on to become a master of the Technicolor age. He shot the likes of Dietrich, Niven, Bogart, Hepburn, Gardner, Monroe and Loren. In the latter part of his career he was an accomplished director, and in his seventies he applied his expertise to the world of digital.

‘For his inventions, imagination and sheer audacity, there has never been another colour cameraman like Jack Cardiff.’
Michael Powell

Cardiff’s greatest work was with the film-making duo Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger. Together they created the icons of British cinema, ‘A Matter of Life and Death,’ ‘Black Narcissus’ and ‘The Red Shoes.’ These are films of bold ambition, rich invention and touching romance.

Cardiff was an avid student of Rembrandt, Vermeer and Turner, and he regarded the cameraman as ‘the man who paints the movie.’ He gave us lush green forests, blood-orange sunsets and ominous dark shadows; he produced iridescent purples, vibrant pinks and luminous turquoises; he conjured up disarming flashes of passionate crimson lips, intimate close-ups on smouldering brown eyes.

‘He gave me half of my performance with the lighting.’
Kathleen Byron, Actor, Black Narcissus

I was quite taken with one particular observation Cardiff made in his autobiography, ‘Magic Hour.’ Looking back on his career, he reflected on the disordered structure of most of our lives.

‘It would be far more conducive growing old gracefully if our lives were lived in a rewarding and heartening sequence. Submit your life to any decent script editor and they’d reject it on structure alone.’

This theme is taken up in Johnson’s excellent play.

 ‘A real life does not boast a satisfying story arc. We are doomed to live the events of our lives in the wrong damn order; it’s like shooting a film, not watching one…The time of our lives is not the finished masterpiece; it’s just whatever we got in the can today.’

It’s true that our lives are often messy, complex and chaotic. We behave erratically and inconsistently. We are overtaken by events, by relationships, and circumstances beyond our control. We tend to live our lives in the wrong order.

I understand that in the world of psychotherapy patients are encouraged to create an ‘integrated narrative’: a single story that accommodates diverse experiences and relationships; that makes sense of the past and present, both logically and intuitively; that gives some direction for the future; that is recognisable as one’s own. An integrated narrative provides a certain amount of meaning, identity and purpose to one’s life.

I suspect that brands and businesses could do with integrated narratives too. So often a brand acquires associations and characteristics that are somewhat contradictory and at odds. So often a business is led by groups of people with very different points of view. So often decisions are made and affairs are played out in the wrong order. In such circumstances all would benefit from a coherent story that accommodates these multiple events and perspectives; that binds the disparate threads together into one fabric.

I’m well aware that many are sceptical of talk of storytelling. It sometimes seems too easy, flip and commonplace. But I have found that narrative continues to be a valuable tool in life and business. Stories are universal and timeless precisely because they make sense when we are confused; they unite us when we are divided; they provide direction when we are lost.

In Johnson’s play Cardiff quotes the director John Huston with whom he shot the Bogart-Hepburn classic ‘The African Queen’:

‘We’ve all got a strip of celluloid running though us. It’s got a thousand images on it and it’s a fragile thing. But if you are an artist you are going to cut and colour and grade and project that celluloid back at the world, because our past is all we’ve got to give.’ 

No. 156

Me, Myself and I: What Kind of Self-Portrait Would We Paint for Our Brands?

Cristofano Allori 'Judith with the Head of Holofernes'

There’s a myth that the first person to draw was a shepherd who traced his own shadow in the dust with his staff.  It’s telling perhaps that man’s first picture was of himself, a selfie. We are social animals, but we are also enormously self-centred.

This myth of ‘the invention of the art of drawing’ is captured in an engraving at an excellent exhibition at the Queen’s Gallery in London. ‘Portrait of the Artist’ embraces all manner of images of artists, both self-portraits and pictures by colleagues, pupils and friends. (It runs until 17 April.)

One cannot help but be fascinated by self-portraits. Here we get to observe what other people see in the mirror; to assess how they present themselves to the world; to see how they want to be seen.

There were practical reasons for artists to engage in self-portraiture. Drawing or painting oneself provided the opportunity to practice, experiment and explore; to consider different facial expressions, moods or pictorial styles. And the models came free.

But artists had other motivations. Sometimes they wanted to leave mementos of themselves for family and loved ones. Sometimes they sought to advertise their talent to potential clients. Sometimes they wanted to celebrate their status or success to a broader public. And sometimes they had a message to pass on.

Edwin Landseer 'The Connoisseurs: Portrait of the Artist with Two Dogs'

Artists’ choice of context and theme was often telling. Sebastiano Ricci painted himself attending to Christ teaching in the temple. Johan Zoffany recorded himself amongst his fellow Royal Academicians. Jan Steen depicted himself watching card-players in a pub. These artists were declaring their piety, their prestige, their lack of pretension. Edwin Landseer portrayed himself with his dogs looking over his shoulder admiring his draftsmanship. He seems to be suggesting that they at least properly appreciate his work.

Occasionally artists would adopt mythical roles in order to signal a coded theme. Artemesia Gentileschi presented herself as the female personification of painting itself, La Pittura, a conceit unavailable to her male colleagues. Cristofano Allori portrayed himself as Holofernes beheaded by Judith. He modelled the figure of Judith on his former lover, ’La Mazzafirra,’ and had her mother standing by as the murderer’s assistant.

Of course, often self-portraiture expressed intense self-reflection. Lucian Freud peers out from the midst of deep shadows, his eyes dark with world-weary experience. Maria Cosway stares at us with arms folded as if to indicate her disappointment or disdain. And then there is Rembrandt. He put on costume and fancy dress, but painted himself with unflinching honesty: scrutinising the decay of age, the regret and yearning within.

Rembrandt  'Self-Portrait in a Flat Cap'

One departs the exhibition with a strong sense of the complexity of the human psyche; of the layered self. When we look in the mirror we see many images of ourselves. We are self-centred and self-satisfied; self-doubting and self-deluding. We self-publish and self-promote. We are self-obsessed.

Maria Cosway 'A Self-Portrait '

You would think that in the field of marketing and communication we would be well versed in the contours and complexities of the layered self. But, whilst many of us in the business tend towards solipsism, how often do we subject our own brands to proper scrutiny? How often do we assess them from within rather from without?

What kind of self-portrait would we paint for our own brands? Would we be puffed up and proud, keen to promote our prestige and status? Would we, like a teenager taking a selfie, betray our own fickle airs and shallow affectations? Or would we, like Rembrandt, be honest, searching and direct?

Perhaps we too should occasionally take a long hard look in the mirror.

‘Mirror, mirror on the wall.
Tell me mirror what is wrong?
Can it be my De La clothes?
Or is it just my De La song?
It’s just me, myself and I.
It’s just me, myself and I.’

De La Soul, Me, Myself and I

No. 117