Francis Bacon: Invisible Rooms

thoughts on and thoughts through an exhibition

Susanna Galbraith

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a visible room: Francis Bacon's Studio

There is a room within a room in Dublin's Hugh Lane gallery that is stationed like an aquarium at the core of a gallery wing, sectioned off from the rest of its collection. The narrow convex windows that open onto this room allow visitors to get as close to the experience of being inside it without destroying its bubble, breaking the membrane between one element and another. Like looking into an underwater realm visitors peer into that of a creative life past: the 7 Reese Mews, London studio of Francis Bacon, artist.

This room is not an artwork but a relic, its exhibition among paintings and sketches reinforcing the unshakeable connection that tends to form in the mind of spectators between art and the living body that produces it. It is evidence of Francis Bacon, the body and the artist, that visitors seek as they peek into the interior that seems lit for living, in contrast with the customary museum lighting of the rest of the Hugh Lane, as if it was still inhabited. But it is in this room-spectacle that a living body is conspicuously absent, an empty room carrying its marks, standing in its place.

"Invisible Rooms": An Exhibition

At the Tate Liverpool, in a room behind another room, a photograph of this studio is the opening image in "Francis Bacon: Invisible Rooms", a temporary exhibition running from May to September 2016 before touring to the Staatsgalerie Stuttgart in October. As its Summer term of occupation ends it is perhaps time for a reflection, in the hope that it will be fruitful. In Dublin's relic-studio it is Bacon's own body that is invisible. It is here that this strange term "Invisible" is applied to the environments that house the figures in Bacon's paintings, redirecting attention from bodies to spaces.

The works included are taken from all eras of Bacon's career and exemplify all the familiar motifs of his oeuvre: crucifixions, portraits of personal friends and lovers, re-renderings of Diego Valazquez's Pope Innocent X, the nurse from Eisenstein's Battleship Potemkin , triptychs and isolated canvases, clogging impasto and cuttingly flat stretches of colour. Really the works gathered here might easily constitute a miniature retrospective on Bacon. It is the title "Invisible Rooms" that gives this exhibition distinction as an event in artistic curatorship, and it is this that I feel warrants further attention.

On the one hand this title could be criticised for vagueness, imprecision perhaps, or even be dismissed as innocuously childish. However, one of the most interesting aspects of this exhibition is the provision of such an ambiguous and multifaceted verbal key to help unlock Bacon's artistic universe. Here I will make some effort to turn this key a small twist, and let it open up some pathways into Bacon's work, its difficulty, what it does to his spectators, and what it does in and to the world it occupies.

the meaning of "Rooms"

Bacon's grotesque rendering of the human figure can so easily become the preoccupation of any viewer of his work. By introducing the work under a title that alludes not to the figures but their environments, "Invisible Rooms", the curators have gone some way toward deflecting attention away from this most visceral feature, or at least refocusing our consideration of it: we are encouraged to think about Bacon's human figures in conjunction with the paintings' fluctuating structural conditions, his ambiguous isolation of bodies within strange layers of "Rooms".

It should first be established that there is a considerable diversity in what the elected term "Rooms" is being used to refer to here in terms of the featured works. In some early paintings like Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion whole canvases portray unnatural claustrophobic spaces that enclose their figures. Later, white scaffolds are superimposed over the heads of subjects, as in Study for a portrait, 1952. Figures can appear imprisoned inside box-like objects  (Study for a portrait, 1949), and other times "shuttering" effects close behind figures like a theatrical backdrop (Figure, 1951). Sometimes what might be called Bacon's "Rooms" are ambiguous circular arenas in which figures are staged, as in The Human Figure in Motion: Woman Emptying a Bowl of Water/ Paralytic Child Walking on All Fours, 1965. Often the canvases contain fictive bedroom or living-room type spaces that are oddly blank, as distorted as the bodies that occupy them, opening onto voids, such as in the outer panels of Triptych, 1967.

The word "Rooms" here might therefore seem insufficient, baggy even, as so many different manipulations of painted space are gathered very loosely into its meaning. Perhaps it is. However, all of these manipulations are consistent in indicating a boundary, and often one that is ambiguously semi-permeable. These boundaries are part of what creates the tensions on which the viewer's experience of and relationship to the figures depends.

For Bacon, famously atheistic, bodies exist in space and this space is never infinite. Meaning, even if that meaning is solely aesthetic, must come from the relationship between bodies and space, figure and ground, because that is all there is. Any enclosing or bounded space might be considered a "Room". While his method of manifestation varies in the paintings, a foregrounded dialogue between spaces and  figure is notably consistent in Bacon's work.

His handling of this relationship between figure and ground has left even some of his most enthusiastic critics unsure. In early years his promoter David Sylvester found it somewhat unconvincing a lot of the time.[1] Indeed, there is a considerable disjunction between the aesthetic execution of the shapely figures and the "space frames" that much of the time seem facets of a separate dimension. According to Sylvester these are insufficient in  attempting to hold figures in place on a canvas, usually dominated by two dimensional planes of colour, leaving them to  "float like ectoplasm in a void".[2] Bacon's rendered spaces, his "Rooms" if we are to permit the word its broadest possible sense, effect a dislocation of his figures, leaving them floating in such a way. However we needn't spend time here questioning the value of this: it constitutes a major aspect of what John Berger calls Bacon's "fully articulated world view" that changes hardly at all throughout his artistic career, and it is reiterated on every canvas of this exhibition. This effect of the "Rooms" is a primary aspect of how these paintings challenge viewers to relate to their subjects and the artist that created them, and there is therefore no doubt that they merit our examination.

the meaning of "Invisible"

The title of anything is a jumping-off-point , something to return to repeatedly throughout an experience in order to bounce back into the event at a different angle each time. Such is the case with the terms of "Invisible Rooms". The qualifier "Invisible" is equally gnomic as "Rooms" in relation to Bacon's work, if not more so. Nevertheless, this can make it a generative tool, conjuring numerous ways of thinking about Bacon by way of its connotations. It is an odd term to use, precisely because the spaces and structuring devices being referred to are, of course, visible aspects of the paintings (otherwise why would anyone draw attention to them at all). The function of the term "Invisible" in colouring our understanding of Bacon's use of space must go beyond its simple definition, "not visible".

The term first of all raises the question of who can see the spatial boundaries Bacon constructs that constitute the "Rooms" of his paintings. The artist makes them visible to the viewer, but are we to assume that the figures contained within these boundaries are supposed to be aware of or blind to them? Bacon insisted that he used them to "concentrate the image down".[3] This makes them tools of the artist, guidelines for the viewer's perceptive experience, framing devices to which the depicted figure would be insensible. We are left wondering whether these are components of the figure's world or rather components of the realm of perception that swims between figure and artist or viewer. The term "Invisible" fundamentally raises the question of visibility to the mind of the spectator, of seeing or not seeing and how they affect the relationship of viewer to viewed, of voyeurism and blindness. If the exhibition title is given any close attention, these questions should repeat on the viewer throughout and beyond.

Another way in which "Invisible" might be interpreted in the context of these works is not as "not visible" but "un-photographable". Bacon himself stated the belief that photography in the 20th century became modern man's way of seeing, monopolising understanding of what is 'true' visual perception.[4] This dominance of photography in contemporary acts of looking and recording is an extremely important context for Bacon's development. Electing the human body as his subject matter, Bacon was faced with the difficult task of negotiating "painting the human figure after photography", locating and communicating the un-photographable truths of the body in his medium.[5] The term "Invisible" in the title might therefore suggest that the "Rooms" in his works play an important role in Bacon's attempts to render these un-photographable truths.

Taken simply, the term "Invisible" might also be a way of describing apparent transparency, a quality that seems to render a boundary semi-visible, something quite prominent in Bacon's works. The diagrammatical spaces constructed around his figures have indeed in the past been referred to as glass boxes. But "Invisible" is too charged a term and its relation to this idea of transparency too inexact for this interpretation to be enough. There is much more to its relationship to what is happening in the works of this exhibition.

The "Invisible" is the mysterious, that which is present but not sensible by conventional ways of perceiving. It is that which is there, involved, but out of reach of reason and representation. Although, as will be later discussed, Bacon may allude to the scientific, he does not deal in matters of reason. The spaces of the paintings are supernatural, full of the unknowable. The "Invisible" here comes down to the hyperphysical, subjectivity, mysteries, limitations, blindness.

a photograph of a room: Francis Bacon's Studio

As I have already noted, however, before any viewer begins to consider the nature of these "Invisible Rooms" of Bacon's paintings they are confronted with a photograph of Bacon's studio: an image and record of a room that exists, is fully visible, in the viewer's own physical world. Rooms are foregrounded from the outset, and no doubt this deliberate curatorial gesture has some effect on any engaged viewer in their experience of the paintings in light of the exhibition title. This is worth paying some attention to before moving on.

The gallery goer is encouraged to consider the room in which Bacon, as a body at work, created many of the canvases they are about to view. As a result, certain spatial features of these art works spring into prominence as they are recognised from the studio, such as bare lightbulbs and curves of light created by the round mirror that sits at the far wall (Three Figures and Portrait, 1975; Sand Dune, 1983). We are made to recognise from the outset the mysterious status of the canvases as they mediate between posthumous viewer and artist at work, mirroring but not mirroring, absorbing but not absorbing, the room in which they were realised.

For a viewer who has previously frequented the studio as it has been fastidiously reconstructed in Dublin, the photograph cannot but pull the memory of that experience into the present experience of the Liverpool exhibition. In doing so it draws in the contrary sensation of Bacon's absence in that studio as we peer into the "Invisible Rooms" within the paintings to witness the figures that eternally reside there, in permanent spasmodic convulsion but never to leave their enclosures. The painted rooms will never cease to be occupied.

The clutter of the studio, the innumerable paintbrushes crammed into pots, walls and carpets of stained books and loose pages, layers of paint tested in smears seeming to grow from the walls, has become archaeological. It is the collective waste from the creation of pure images, calcified in paint, endowed with an immutability and permanence that belongs to no human life. While components of its structure find their way onto Bacon's canvases, the glut of mess and materials in the studio lies in polar opposition to the blank, undecorated spaces and colour planes of Bacon's paintings. The studio, when taken as the context for their creation, seems the chaos from which their strange order is extracted, the tangible crust from which the "Invisible" has perhaps emerged into visibility, the force of the artist's imagination on the world he perceives captured in paint on canvas.

the matter of relationships

Thinking about a collection of artworks and thinking about the experience of viewing artworks both come down, in one sense, to a matter of relationships. How does one work relate to its co-occupants of the exhibitions space, and how does a viewer relate to any work or works. Because of consistency of basic subject matter, all of the paintings in this exhibition (indeed, all of Bacon's work it might be said) converse with each other in a manner comparable to how each panel in a triptych is in dialogue with the others. (The use of the triptych format perpetuated Bacon's method for much of his career, and there are two disparate examples of this in the exhibition, Three Studies, 1944 and Triptych, 1967.)

When it comes to thinking about how any human viewer relates to any one of Bacon's paintings it is necessary to start with the (apparently) human figure in the paintings, and consider the extent of identification that can occur between viewer and figure. As Bacon's humanity is instinctively sought in his studio, so it is natural that a sense of that of the figures be sought as a viewer peers into their abode.

Bacon's figures represent the fundamental condition of humanity in a godless and war-ridden world, that of meat without any potential for transcendence or elevation. In so many works Bacon's impasto mottling of reds, greys and pinks, his exaggerated relationship between bone and flesh, cannot but impress potently on the viewer this notion of human flesh as meat. There is also, significantly, a distinct lack of vertical propulsion in his paintings, a flat enclosing ceiling so often being a component of the room-like structures he delineates within the bounds of the canvas. This is most keenly felt in the works that refer to the crucifixion, or with any work in which Bacon has appropriated the triptych form traditionally associated with religious artwork.

In Crucifixion, the earliest work in this exhibition, the cross does not function as an axis mundi, pushing into the sky toward the realm of God, but the event seems to take place in a dark room in which this apparatus and its victim are claustrophobically contained. By the time of Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion the cross has been eradicated from the scene entirely, any elevating vertical propulsion customary in crucifixion artworks replaced with the contrary oppression of the blank orange ceiling under which the bodies are hunched, all heads angled downward.

But the bodies in Three Studies are not simply human but explicitly monstrous. In most later works this monstrosity tends to be toned down to more minor deformation of the human figure. However, although they are used by Bacon as indicators of what it is to be human and a body, there is something that prevents the viewer fully identifying with his figures as such throughout the exhibition.  

The argument might be made that all of Bacon's figures are manifestations of the same fact of the human body. This is in spite of the implication in many of his titles that these works are studies for portraits of individuals (Portrait of Isabel Rawsthorne Standing in a Street in Soho; Study for Portrait of P.L.): they can never be understood simply as personal portraits, but so often studies of represented humanity. His liberal use of distortion, always carrying a hint of inhumanity into his figures, could be read as a suggestion of this idea that the one fact of the body might be distorted through different versions, different identities which demand portraiture, different genders and physical make up, but remains the same imperative of flesh whose fluid mobility is permanently in tension with its limitations, the windowless rooms it finds itself in.

If one is to accept the terms of Gilles Deleuze, one of Bacon's most significant commentators, he attempts to capture the "purely figural" repeatedly in its various guises, not to depict the bodies of individuals in a "figurative" or "illustrative" manner.[6] While this theory might imply that there is something of their own human condition that any viewer might recognise in any one of Bacon's figures, identification is to a large extent averted. In Bacon's work the human body has been extracted from the detail and specificity of the physical world into virtual space, isolated repeatedly within layers of bounded space, and therefore preserved as an archetype of flesh, alienated from the empathy of the viewer and (as Berger argues) from their own individuality. Bacon's "Rooms" facilitate a situation in which his figures, while representing the facts of humanity, can no longer be identified with as human.

Bacon stated that it was the scream, not any experience of horror, that he persistently attempted to depict.[7] This is the scream of both Study for a Portrait, 1949 and 1952, and  Study for the Nurse in the Film 'Battleship Potemkin', 1957. Bacon's words  might be taken as support for Berger's suggestion that in his figures we experience a vacuum of consciousness. A viewer could perhaps at first pity a figure, but empathy such as that which is so often conjured in looking at a portrait, or (as Robert Hughes remarks) by so many of the figures of artistic expressionism of which Bacon is on the "outer limit", is arguably impossible.[8] They are too detached, do not "call you into their space" (Hughes).[9]

Bacon's spaces are not of the physical world, no matter how viscerally he renders the flesh of the figures within them. They are models of space without place, within an imaginative dimension that is bubbled in voids and, detached from our temporal narrative, may indeed be eternal. Their on-canvas fluctuation between the three-dimensional and the two-dimensional is irresolvable and continuous. Time does not move forward in Bacon's works. Movements are convulsive not linear, there is no natural light and therefore no sense at all of time of day. Although subject matter is repeated canvas to canvas, each image acts on itself alone. The triptychs tell no story but turn in on themselves, permanently twisting back into the same image.

By locating the bodies he renders in paint in these timeless, placeless spaces Bacon seems to detach flesh from its own mortality and turn it into an eternal fact. In his "Invisible Rooms", it is this, rather than actual pathetic bodies, that the viewer feels they encounter.

vision and blindness

Born in 1909 and dying in 1992, Bacon's life is closely enclosed within the edges of the 20th century. While it is perhaps not appropriate to suppose that this biographical fact impacted consciously on Bacon as he lived and worked, it nevertheless chimes with his use of space in the paintings. In them can be detected the relentless pressure of enclosure, confinement in isolation, and powerlessness to alter this condition.

Even when the "Rooms" in the canvases seem to open outward into the viewer's space, the figures staged to face out from their confinements through its forth wall, we cannot feel that they are actually seeing anything. Bacon's figures are nearly always at least partially blind. Some are explicitly blindfolded (Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion), and the eyes of most are somewhat obscured by Bacon's smearing of the face (Man in Blue V, Study for a portrait on folding bed). In Study for a Portrait of P.L. (Peter Lacy, one of Bacon's lovers), the initial implication of an intimate returning gaze created by the figure's posture is a fleeting experience; realising the imprecision of this gaze quickly re-establishes a familiar detachment, and the viewer must realise that they occupy not a dialogic role in relation to the figure, but are more so part of the black void that is the painting's foreground, or are at least severed from the figure by this void.

Other figures have their vision seemingly removed to behind spectacles (Study for a Portrait, 1952; Study for the Nurse in the Film 'Battleship Potemkin' ). In Bacon, what appears as an optical aid can never be accepted as being simply so within the world of the painting. What Deleuze points out, that "Bacon's mirrors can be anything you like - except a reflecting surface", extends to other optical aids.[10] Seeing is different within the world of the paintings. Mirrors do both more and less than reflect what is there (Triptych, 1967), and glass lenses and windows seem far from penetrable by the sight of the figures.

In Study for a Portrait and Study for the Nurse, the spectacles are enclosures in themselves, preventing the figures from ever meeting the gaze of their onlookers, perhaps, we might imagine, containing a private horror that the viewer is not privy to. The window at the centre of Triptych, 1967 (the only overt window in the entire exhibition) is not a window but a void, letting in no light, giving way to no vision. It is an obstacle to the pull of the triptych's central perspective, and in so reinforces a feeling of entrapment. Such entrapment of the figures in apparent blindness further detaches them from the viewer of the paintings, reinforcing the latter's position as voyeur and the figure as helpless spectacle.

from photographs to “Rooms”

The exhibition returns the spectator's attention to Bacon in his studio a number of times, most notably at the mid-way point of the exhibition in a section that displays sketches and materials which are part of the catalogued archive of the studio contents. This section of the exhibition is singled-out, the wall on which it is mounted painted a different colour. There is a shift in atmosphere as the viewer shifts from contemplating the completed oil paintings to images in other mediums that served as Bacon's source materials.

Bacon was a painter working very much in the context of photographic mediums. The exhibition here of photographs from which Bacon sourced his figures in conjunction with some of the paintings that involve these figures has an important bearing on understanding some of the complexities involved in Bacon’s construction of the “Invisible Rooms” into which he relocates them.

Portrait of Isabel Rawsthorne Standing in a Street in Soho, 1967 most clearly illustrates this. The stance of the figure, Rawsthorne, somewhat restates that captured in the photograph, but this figure has apparently been extracted from its photographed real-life location and inserted into a tangle of interlaced indications of spatial structures. This artificial environment created by Bacon has a complicated relationship with both the captured spatial content of the photograph, and the photographic medium itself.

The figure has been relocated from the street corner in the photograph, alluded to in the painting’s title, onto a rounded plinth and placed inside a box. The box is comprised merely of white construction lines, the two-dimensional surface remaining explicit as spatial depth is indicated solely through line. There is a weird flatness to the painting, tonal depth being, for the most part, avoided. Indistinct blue planes dominate the canvas as voids that lie beyond the box that she now seems to be contained within. But these coloured planes leap forward, maintaining a sense of two-dimensionality. There is a suspended tension between this flatness of texture and allusion to three-dimensionality evident in the shapely rendering of the figure and the scaffolds of the box and plinth around her.

Some of verticals that make up the box shape parallel the verticals of the building in the photograph. But these have been drawn forward from behind the figure to before her in the painting, creating the impression of a boundary, a transparent forth wall of a “Room”, seeming to trap the figure in a way not evident in the photograph. Other indications of spatial limitations in the painting seem not to relate at all to the street of the photograph. However, it could be that they have everything to do with the photographic medium, playing a central role in how Bacon seems to incorporate an awareness of how photography manipulates our ways of seeing the world into his construction of “Invisible Rooms”.

The edges of the box might be read as indications of the edges of the photograph. In terms of depicted space, the painting does not merely allude to spaces in the photograph’s content but the space and bounds of the photograph itself, as a two-dimensional rectangular object containing a static image. The drama of dimensions that Bacon creates on canvas (discussed above) is indicative of the tension contained in every photograph between their unvaryingly sheer texture as an object and the real-world complexities of spatial depths in the images they carry. Awareness of the photograph as a medium with its own characteristics and limitations, rather than being a clear window onto the world, is deliberately alluded to by Bacon. He even seems to have transformed a curved fold that blemishes the right-hand side of the battered photographic object into the construction of spaces on canvas. Bacon’s “Invisible Rooms”, it might therefore be observed, can manifest the effect and limitations of perceptive mediums, such as those of the photograph.

If the lines of Bacon’s “Invisible Rooms” have to do with the various frameworks complicit in acts of looking, in this case of looking at a photograph, then the paintings might on some level be understood as diagrams of perception. Bacon questions the extent of the photograph's veracity, and attending not only to its content but to its bounds as a medium, seeks some sort of communication of the un-photographable, what the twentieth-century cult of the photograph perhaps rendered as "Invisible".

Bacon's laboratory

It might be said that the seeking of human truths can manifest either spiritually or scientifically. As has already been discussed, Bacon's portrayal of space on canvas effectively eradicates the spiritual in his painted world. Furthermore, it can be observed that many of Bacon's aesthetic motifs appear to be borrowed from the world of science. As I have just noted regarding Portrait of Isabel Rawsthorne Standing in a Street in Soho, 1967, the lack of tonal depth in Bacon's rendered spaces makes them feel somewhat like diagrams. Artificial arrows and magnifying ellipses highlight features of the compositions like such visual devices found in textbooks (Three Figures and Portrait). The beds of his deformed figures often resemble operating tables (Triptych, 1967). His walls are mostly stripped of enhancements as if sterilized as a stage for experiment. It is the atmosphere of the laboratory with which Bacon infuses his paintings. There is horror, that of biological decay, deformation, pain, isolation, but the viewer is distanced from this horror and the subjects that manifest it by foregrounded frameworks of observation.

It is here that I will venture toward some sort of conclusion, although this is perhaps impossible. Bacon's works, regardless of how they might be netted together in any article or exhibition, clustered under any title, seem to remain always somewhat unexplainable. Conclusions remain enmeshed within the paint- stuff of the works themselves, and similarly perhaps, if Bacon has succeeded in his ambition, in the sensations they stimulate in nervous system, not the mind, of their spectators.

Bacon's "Invisible Rooms" are the tanks and beakers of his artistic experimentation and examination of the human body. Bodies are abstracted from their real-life context and placed in a clinical virtual space. As in biology, it is in this new context, inside layers of isolating structures, that their mortal flesh can be preserved as a specimen of human nature to be observed by generations of gallery-goers. His alchemy is the transformation of a photographable individual body into a manifestation of the "Figure" (Deleuze), an archetypal model of corporeal mortality, or meat, which is itself immortal because removed to an "Invisible" realm, an alternative dimension of paint.

Bacon's concentrating down of the image, as he calls it, by constructing layers of scaffolds around his figures (boxes or rooms) makes room for the various types of void that occupy the edges of his canvases. These voids, whether black, white or brightly coloured, connote these conditions of detached looking.His "Invisible Rooms" distance the visible from the viewer. This connotes an element of self-reflection, of the metapictorial, in Bacon's work, tying him, if rather uniquely, to traits of what we could call post-modernism in his attempt to make valid renderings of the human body in a post-photography and, for Bacon, post-religion society. In his rendering of spatial features Bacon proposes some of the "Invisible" systems (staging, isolation, focus, detachment, comparison) at work in acts of looking. But Bacon explains nothing of them in doing so. They remain suggested and ambiguous. There is no embedded commentary on contemporary affairs, no attempt to lesson his viewers, merely suggestions of some facts of looking and knowing and feeling the truth of the body in space that remain ever encapsulated in the stuff of personal obsessions.

Works Cited and Consulted

Berger, John. "Francis Bacon and Walt Disney." 1972. In About Looking. 1980. London: Bloomsbury, 2009. Print.

­ Deleuze, Gilles. Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation. 1981. Translated by Daniel W. Smith (2003). London: Bloomsbury, 2016. Print.

Domino, Christophe. Francis Bacon 'Taking Reality by Surprise'. 1992. Translated by Ruth Sharman (1997). London: Thames and Hudson, 2010. Print.

"Francis Bacon, Fragments of  Portrait." 1966. ( BBC iplayer. 45 mins. Accessed 28/09/16. Video.

 Francis Bacon: Invisible Rooms. Tate Liverpool Exhibition Guide. Liverpool, 2016. Print.

Hughes, Robert. "Francis Bacon." 1985. In Nothing If Not Critical. London: The Harvill Press, 2001. Print.

Hughes, Robert. The Shock of the New. 1980. London: Thames & Hudson, 2002. Print.

Sylvester, David. "Bacon I." 1954. In About Modern Art. London: Random House, 1996. Print.

Sylvester, David. "Bacon II." 1962. In About Modern Art. London: Random House, 1996. Print.

[1] David Sylvester, "Bacon II" (1962), in About Modern Art, (London: Random House, 1996), pg 176-177.

[2] Ibid., 177.

[3] Francis Bacon , qtd. in Francis Bacon: Invisible Rooms, Tate Liverpool Exhibition Guide, 2016, pg 3.

[4] Gilles Deleuze, Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation, trans. Daniel W. Smith, (London: Bloomsbury, 2016), pg 8.

[5] Francis Bacon: Invisible Rooms, Tate Liverpool Exhibition Guide, 2016, pg 2.

[6] Gilles Deleuze, Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation,  pg 2.

[7] Francis Bacon interviewed by David Sylvester in "Francis Bacon, Fragments of  Portrait" (1966), (, video, BBC iplayer, 45 mins, accessed 28/09/16.

[8] Robert Hughes, Nothing If Not Critical, (London: The Hanvill Press, 2001), pg 317.

[9] Ibid., pg 317.

[10] Gilles Deleuze, Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation, pg 13.