You know that feeling when the girl across the street starts to take her bra off at her bedroom window, and you watch intently because it's the nearest you'll get to flesh... but after she's turned away you reflect tinged with guilt, ashamed at being such a pathetic lonely squid?
I don't, but I imagine it feels somewhat like I do now, having read an article on Harper Lee in The Independent, and a piece on Lucien Freud in The Sunday Times Magazine. Last week I visited my god-daughter, and brought her a copy of 'To Kill a Mockingbird'. I also gave her a Children's version of the New Testament, and will enjoy seeing which she prefers. Even though it was on my school curriculum I managed to enjoy it, and quite rightly it's considered to be one of the classic American novels. Of course Lee never wrote another novel, as is her right.
In contrast to Lee, Lucien Freud is an engine of creativity very much in the cobweb of contemporary culture. Yet like Lee he shuns the exclusive interviews, leading a rich and veiled life of mystery. This is his right.
Neither creator owes us anything. And I feel very uneasy writing my own speculative mumblings now. If you are the sort who can't resist an ogle through the curtains then I'm sure you can track down the links. But as best as I can, I hope to convey the irrespectability of trampling through the allure of greatness.
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