The great English painter Lucian Freud doesn't just depict flesh. He makes paint an equivalent to flesh, a palpable substance that he ushers across the canvas in broad paths of impasto. No reproduction of his paintings can do justice to their palpable surfaces, but this book, with texts by British critic and curator Feaver, is a very handsomely produced record of his work since 1939, from the fidgety, thin wash portraits of the postwar years through the blunt, meaty images of his maturity.
— Richard Lacayo