ABSTRACT
Abandoned or destroyed in great batches, both by the artist himself and by his sadistic lover, Francis Bacon's surviving paintings nevertheless grew in number. For a person who was truly at home only in the anonymity of big cities and who detested not only the countryside but the least hint of an artists' community, living for several months in St Ives, however beautiful its light, seems like a deliberate act of penance. The arrangements were certainly comfortable enough: Bacon lived in a large house owned by a hospitable homosexual where the other guests, the conversation and the quality of food made him feel as much at home as he ever could in a village. Bacon's creative energies had been concentrated by the prospect of an important exhibition: a first show at the Marlborough had been scheduled for early spring 1960, and it was to consist entirely of new work.
