Arguably the greatest portrait painter of his time, Freud died last year at the ripe old age of 88. He worked steadily–vigorously, productively–right up until the end. I like to think that one day, in the middle of a portrait of a naked man and a dog (which will remain forever unfinished, little Eli forever lacking a pair of hind legs) he put down his brushes, climbed the stairs to his apartment above his studio, and died. The image suits him. He had stamina.
The exhibition will be on view until June 9th, and I highly recommend a visit. (For the record, the gallery is free to enter; if you need a dash of inspiration it needn’t cost you more than a subway ticket.)