I first found Lucian Freud through his friend and competitor Francis Bacon. Bacon’s twisted, dark portraits — including one of Freud — appealed to my youthful agnst. I revealed in the notion that lurking within us was some version of his scream.
Freud’s work, while quieter, perhaps, struck me more and more over time. His portraits were more confrontational and more true. His work was an unflinching stare, making me look more at myself than most other artwork. There was also a great kindness in his work — a deep love of the flawed humanity. He died Thursday at the age of 88, leaving behind a trove of some of the best work in the past century.
Read the gorgeous obituary of the grandson of Sigmund Freud, the rake who may have had 40 illegitimate children, the mysterious disdainer of the art world. And linger over his work awhile: