Lucian Freud stripped bare: that is the premise of the National Gallery’s riveting exhibition. No emphasis on the biography, behaviour or love life; no abasement before genius, just the revelation of the paintings as works of art to celebrate the centenary of Freud’s birth.
This is tonic; a liberation from the grand master hush. It is also surprisingly unusual. Without the usual wall texts, occasionally no more than elevated gossip, and without the exalted claims for his vision of humanity, Freud’s portraits can speak for themselves. The curator, Daniel Herrmann, even includes paintings so mediocre they are actively instructive, allowing the eye to perceive what defines the great works.
