Last November, a work titled Potiphar’s Wife by British painter Euan Uglow appeared in a private sale by Christie’s in London. “We were all so excited,” says art historian and curator Catherine Lampert. “I had tried many times to find out where that picture was.” It depicts a woman lying on the ground against a blue wall, legs crossed and arms stretched out behind her to, it seems, stop a man in a T-shirt from leaving. Both cling to a beautifully draped length of orange cloth.
This is the last painting Uglow talked to Lampert about as he lay dying of cancer in August 2000. She had known him since her early 20s, had organised his first big show in 1974 and in those final months of his life, she was working on the catalogue raisonné of his paintings – an annotated list of Uglow’s complete works.
“Euan was quite cryptic,” she says. “But in the last months, he let me record him in anticipation of this book and then he would be quite” – she taps the table decisively with her hand – “‘This is what this picture is about.’ The last time I went to see him in hospital, he said, ‘Let’s get to work.’” Lampert only recorded a few minutes that day. But the details she gleaned – about the vertical yellow band that anchors the whole composition being “satiny and still” and the way the drapery “moves” – she treasured like gold dust.
Lampert is sitting at an aged square table that has been in her London home for 50 years, as has she. The many people who have sat around it (Uglow and Frank Auerbach among them), not to mention the art (Alison Turnbull) and photography (David Hockney in Lucian Freud’s studio; Auerbach and Leon Kossoff at a dinner) on the walls, speak to her status as a quiet giant of contemporary art.
