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   "In point of fact, Bacon loved the extremes of waking in the grim discomfort of his living quarters and working in the studio's cramped chaos before appearing for dinner, impeccably groomed, in the hushed opulence of a grand hotel. What fascinated him, he often remarked, was the 'distance' between the two; staying long in either state would have seemed tedious. Like Picasso, he wanted 'to be rich enough to live like a poor person', without the restraints of convention."

Michael Peppiatt, Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma , p.246

Bacon seemed liked an obvious choice for full length post, but the more I read about him the more sceptical I get about his eccentric or outsider status. He seems to have been quite calculating in many ways: he never got too drunk, never lost too much money, never got too close to the criminal underworld. He outlived most of the Soho crowd and died a rich man. Still the myth of Bacon now has a life of its own thanks particularly to the several documentary he appeared on and Love is the Devil. As a teenager interested in modern art, he was exactly how you wanted an artist to be. In an interview somewhere Jenny Saville says that as an adolescent she "wanted her life to be like Bacon's'". He was just the kind of adult your parents would not invite round for dinner.

Lights out for the territory?

Iain Sinclair was one of the inspirations for this blog, especially Lights Out.., Orbital and Rodinsky's Room. In the latest LRB he has a piece (inevitably) about the Olympics. It begins and ends with the fate of 'the Owl Man' of Hackney, David Mills. Mills lived in a ramshackled dwelling near London Fields and kept large numbers of birds of prey. The Owl Man has had forced out by the logic of re-development and is relocating to Wales.

Sinclair pieces either veer towards the mystical or the cynical. This one felt different: sorrowful, a panegyric. He concludes:

"When I think of the winners who have emerged from this unreal fortnight of mass hallucination, I don’t focus on the justifiably proud cyclists, the strong women in boats, or those youthful triathlon medallists, the Brownlee brothers, who look like scrubbed kids in pyjamas, allowed to stay up late with Christmas baubles around their necks. I think of two men: Boris Johnson clowning so effectively towards office, like an idiot emperor from Robert Graves – and David Mills, spirit of place, who knew just when to step away."

I read that as calling time, not just on Hackney, but on Sinclair's own life's project to document the outer limits of the capital. It must be tinged with the realisation that the semi-bohemian life he has lived is also out of time. Just as he warned Rachel Lichtenstein that Rodinsky's Room was a trap, so East London has been one for him. Can he, like the Owl Man, step away?

Strange news from another star

Adam Curtis recently posted a BBC film from the 1950s featuring London taxi driver George King who founded the Aetherius Society. King and the members of the society believe(d) they could contact extraterrestrial life via meditation and telepathy. King had learned these techniques via his interest in yoga.

George King (1919–1997)

The film is a nice reminder that western interest in Eastern religions predates the post-hippy fallout. But also that there is a long standing tradition of sci-fi in Britain that has always had its mystical or uncanny elements. It goes right back to Frankenstein and is the difference between Doctor Who and Star Trek.