Especially after reading his correspondence with his patrons and his dealer. The letters read like a manipulating drunk trying to wheedle money after blowing it all on booze, gambling and everything but”art supplies”. In one letter he begs for 400 pounds because painting is soooo expensive… in 1940.

Then, I want to go out and burn down the first commercial art gallery I see because I get so angry at the kind of twisted relationship that exists between the people who market art and the people who make it.

Yes, this is hyperbole. I won’t be burning anything but holes in my stomach.

Francis’ tales of excess (partying all night with the Monte Carlo Demi Monde and then working in his monastic studio) is insipring me…to do which, I’m not certain.