Bacon in his studio, Jane Bown ,1985 On an airless white soundstage, shutters scream up. A man steps in. He walks with brass dignity, a hand in his pocket, wearing the colours and contours of Berlin; black turtleneck, grey blazer; mouth ajar like the eyes above it have found something tasty in a trap. Another man waits for him, suited, with the aspect of someone who could wait forever. Not a w...

 Bacon in his studio, Jane Bown ,1985 On an airless white soundstage, shutters scream up. A man steps in. He walks with brass dignity, a hand in his pocket, wearing the colours and contours of Berlin; black turtleneck, grey blazer; mouth ajar like the eyes above it have found something tasty in a trap. Another man waits for him, suited, with the aspect of someone who could wait forever. Not a w...