Art and Artists

Francis Bacon, Proust and Painting

I wake at night and sense myself to be a knot of flesh, privileging one leg over the other – twisted and stuck out of the bedclothes. Another day and I sit in the park. The people on the grass nearby: asymmetrical and balanced on an elbow or pinning under a leg, seem to grow from the green like great fleshy blossoms, spring-pale and strangely foreshortened.

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