There were so many times reading this when I found artist Celia Paul’s perspective almost impossible to relate to, despite being engrossed in her writing. This is a memoir of sorts, a fragmented account of episodes from Paul’s life, with a particular focus on her relationship with her mother and, above all, her ten-year involvement with eminent painter Lucian Freud. It was an entanglement that would, I think/hope, be commonly tagged as horribly exploitative or abusive now but seems to have been considered quite reasonable at the time, apparently sanctioned by Paul’s family along with her art-school tutors and friends. Paul met Freud while she was studying at the Slade, a famous art school in London, where Freud was a visiting lecturer. He pursued her and they soon became lovers. It was 1978, Paul was new to London and had had an unusually sheltered upbringing, she was 18 and he was 56. Freud was already legendary for his countless relationships with women – and sometimes, when he was younger, with men. He frequently juggled several women at once, even producing children with more than one over the course of the same year. He formally recognised 14 of these children, including one with Paul, but it’s rumoured there were far more than that.
Paul’s account of her time with Freud, in an on-and-off manner, seems peculiarly understated, almost hesitant, when it comes to fully confronting the nature of their interactions. But it’s clear Freud, with his insistence on his own freedom, which his friends tell Paul is essential to his art, was someone who would now be associated with a particularly toxic form of masculinity. He’s deeply controlling, refusing to give Paul his telephone number, so that she’s forced to wait in for his calls, and he’s unbearably sulky if he phones and she doesn’t answer. He lies about the other women he’s having sex with, yet Paul’s clearly expected to be monogamous. She seems to be just another in a line of seemingly-interchangeable muses, often enshrined in Freud’s paintings through his relentless, male gaze as ‘girl with’ or ‘girl in’ from his 1940s painting of Kitty Garman Girl in a Dark Jacket, to his wife, author Caroline Blackwood, Girl in Bed, onwards. The only obvious difference is that as Freud ages, his women get younger. Freud’s ideal woman, he tells Paul, would be the equivalent of painter Gwen John with the much older sculptor Rodin, someone who’d gladly sacrifice their own needs and work to support their male partner’s vision. Of course, anyone familiar with John will recall that things didn't end well for her; and another of Rodin’s lovers, fellow sculptor, Camille Claudel ended up forgotten and living out her most of her natural life confined to an asylum. Hard too, not to think of Picasso who had similar attitudes towards women, carefully documented in Francoise Gilot’s account of their relationship when she was in her twenties and he in his sixties.
Paul’s clearly aware, quite early on, that Freud’s both casually arrogant and emotionally cruel, but still finds him impossible to resist, something presumably intensified by his iconic status as a “great” artist. Although there are moments when she’s forced to admit her feelings for him are like some form of sickness. Bound up in all of this is an adherence to, or at least a failure to question, various cultural myths of the artist: almost always male, someone whose genius exempts them from reasonable behaviour, whose unique vision must be nurtured and protected at all times. It’s a myth that’s since been debunked across art schools and universities yet somehow persists in pockets of the popular imagination - a way in which “art” can assert its superiority over mere “craft”. From this account, it’s hard to imagine that at the point when Paul and Freud met, this often-gendered notion was already under attack by an array of feminist artists like Hannah Wilke, women artists who were mainly working in fields like performance art or photography. Paul and Freud are, of course, known for figurative art, an area now becoming fashionable again, but for many years linked to quite traditional, rather dated, concepts of what art is or might be.
There’s an incredibly melancholy flavour to Paul’s story, she’s surrounded by fellow students but so much of her life is taken up by Freud, his needs, and his friends - mostly established/establishment figures. But Paul does have a close bond with her mother and her sisters who provide a space beyond Freud’s reach, and although she struggles to retain her sense of self, Paul uses that bond to fuel her own creative work, a series of intimate pieces often featuring her mother or her sisters. Paul does eventually break loose, becoming a respected painter in her own right, but it’s still hard not to read this as a cautionary tale. Although there are brief, tantalising references which could be interpreted as signs that Paul's artistic career benefited from her connection to Freud: he bought her a central London flat/studio; introduced her to critics, gallery owners and prominent artists. I'd have liked her take on this possibility, or an indication of her response to anyone who might adopt this viewpoint, but it's another of the areas she seems reluctant to address head-on. Her memoir’s illustrated with full-colour, examples of her work, which contain echoes both of Gwen John and, oddly, Francis Bacon, demonstrating how her particular, autobiographical brand of art grew out of her experiences.