I read all two hundred pages of Celia Paul’s autobiography on a recent flight from London to New York. Sunshine flooding into the cabin from the south was perfect for studying the extraordinary paintings that punctuate the story of her life.  It’s a story with a simple enough arc: from her childhood days in Kerala where her father was an Anglican missionary, to boarding school in Devon and her studies at The Slade, and onto her quiet career as an artist in London.

Love is the steady pulse of her story. Love for her parents and her four sisters, and for her son Frank, the child born from her relatively brief but intense relationship with Lucien Freud. And, most of all, love for painting, the work to which she has committed her life and of which she writes with such intensity and passion.

Reviews of Self-Portrait have tended inevitably to focus on the affair with Freud, which began when Paul was in her late teens. That’s a shame.  His often-shabby behavior, his neglect and infidelities, make for good headlines, but nothing should distract us from Paul’s outstanding work and the fervent commitment that has fueled it. She’s a wonderful painter and I hope this book will bring her the many new admirers she deserves.