There’s a certain romantic allure to the idea of the creative recluse – the artist who insists their work speak for itself. Alongside the Salingers, Kubricks and Garbos, Frank Auerbach always seemed to me to be a promo-dodger. So it was disarming to find myself standing in the cramped galley kitchen of a ground-floor flat in north London with one of the world’s greatest living painters as he made us coffee.
“I only have instant, I’m afraid,” said Auerbach. “And sorry about the mess.”
