A portrait hangs above a fireplace in a living room. The artist’s hand must have hardly lifted off the page as he traced the sitter’s face. It feels odd to be taking in a piece by such a renowned artist, set above family photos and trinkets.
I ask if I can take a photograph to remember it better, but the man sitting behind me in an armchair responds very politely that he’d rather I didn’t. He wasn’t a museum assistant, but a friend of the owner. They had been unable to meet me but allowed me to visit their home, tucked away in a well-heeled suburban street, on the condition that I didn’t reveal any identifying details about the work or its location.
