Hotel Bedroom (1954)

Thoughts that come to me when I look at art.

Stupidly impressive painting. The way he captured the tension in the room is impeccable. The brush strokes he uses are soft and circular yet linear when they need to be. Emphasising bold features of his partner, the large eyes, down trodden by tiredness, fatigue, the same arguments, the same struggles. Both parties promising change but never delivering. Both thinking “what do we do next”. His wife isn’t painted with beauty in mind, she’s painted through a fustrated gaze, a gaze we can see Freud engaging in, in the scene. Her fingers are bony, her skin pale, the off white in her hair, still, gelled, from a time where things were good, where they were oblivious and hopeful for the future. Still clothed, this was a moment none of them planned to be having in this room. A moment without consent, without readiness, she lays there contemplating why, what can I do. The framing, reminding us of all the internal battles occurring all around us all the time, us completely oblivious to it, until we’re in a situation like this as well. He paints himself in the dark of the room, unaltered, with the spotlight and focus on his wife’s features, on her distress, on the banality of this moment. He watches, not with love but with neutrality. Two parties trying to escape a moment they put themselves in.