It's cold and damp, the sky is low, gray as a Dutch painting, the sea is not far away, I could have stayed home.
As I enter the bedroom of this big house, I'm immediately overwhelmed by sadness.
Hundreds, thousands of them, pages scattered across the floor, watercolors of nudes in cardboard boxes, stacked and torn open for all to see.
But no one lingers, all busy buying teapots, rugs or other pieces of furniture at knock- down prices. It's a garage sale, a gigantic one, a pretext that day for taking two ferries and a trip to Shelter Island, which I love so much.
I observe these languid figures, generously shaped, wiry, sulky or joyful when they're not from behind. I'm captivated by their incisive, precise lines, imbued with poetry. .
I discover a date and the same signature on each work. I search feverishly on my phone, adding the word art, or perhaps watercolors, but find nothing that resembles what I'm looking at. I can feel that they're waiting for me, but I can't decide which one to choose. Nevertheless, I take several of them and a sketchbook
The wall in front of my work table now looks great. The works of this artist I know nothing about challenge me, enchant me and encourage me to discover their secrets. They're nothing like the photographs or more conceptual works I've always loved to own. In their strokes, one can clearly see echoes of the great portrayers of nudes – Rubens, Schiele, Klimt, Rodin, Delacroix, Degas, Bonnard, Matisse, Picasso and more – as if the painter absorbed the essence of his predecessors.
But there's something more: the gesture always seems to stop in mid-air, color and line overlap, respond to each other, ignite. There are no mistakes.
Through online searches, I finally unearth the obituary notice of the unknown artist and learn of his extraordinary history. Digging deeper, I find his daughter on LinkedIn. I send a message. The next call is obviously to my friend Tatyana Franck.
Olivia Bransbourg
New York, January 2024