Bacon’s art wasn’t exactly what you might call “cheerful”, and he lacked the basking in happy superficiality that characterized Warhol’s work (who turned shallow commercial illustration into profound high art). But for those looking to swim in the deep end, he offered room to submerge oneself, not unlike the symphonies of Dmitri Shostakovich, or the poems of T.S. Eliot. Lying Figure (1969), for one, reminded me of a couple lines from Eliot’s, The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock: