I found an 18th century house at the end of a winding driveway, with cars parked all around. Clearly others were in the mood to pick up a bargain or two as well.
I made my way into the first floor, crowded with people busy buying teapots, rugs or other pieces of furniture at knock- down prices. I learned that the husband had died years before, but the wife had only just been moved to a residence in Brooklyn Heights to be closer to her family.

I continued up to the second level and came to a bedroom. Little did I know that what awaited me when I walked through that door would occupy a large part of my life for the next year.

Hundreds, perhaps thousands of etchings and watercolors of nudes were strewn across the floor, piled in cardboard boxes, their fragile beauty exposed, as if they were cheap paperbacks or DVD’s.

I knelt down to take a closer look and was captivated by these languid figures: some generously shaped, others, wiry, sulky or joyful (their attitudes clear even when painted from behind!).

I was fascinated by their incisive, precise lines, imbued with poetry. I discovered a date and found the same signature on each one. I searched feverishly on my phone but couldn't find anything resembling what I was looking at. Somehow, I felt these works of art had been sitting in this room, waiting for someone to discover them.

A couple of weeks later, I received an email announcing a second sale in the house. I wrote to the organizers of the sale: are there any watercolors left? To my delight, the answer came back: yes!

Two days later, I bought fifty of them. Out of respect, I felt the need to order fine frames to display them, which I chose in light oak. The irony that the frames cost more than the works themselves did not escape me. It wasn’t fair. These works deserved to be seen, this artist celebrated.

As I gazed on the wall opposite my office table, the works of this artist I knew nothing about challenged me to discover their secret.

In their strokes, one could clearly see echoes of the great portrayers of nudes – Rubens, Schiele, Klimt, Rodin, Delacroix, Bonnard, Matisse, Picasso and more – as if the painter absorbed the essence of his predecessors. But there was something more. The spontaneous gestures sometimes stopping in mid- air, color and line overlap, responding to one another, in ways that seemed almost random. And yet, there were no mistakes.

Through online searches, I unearthed the obituary notice of the unknown artist and learned of his extraordinary history. Digging deeper, I found his daughter on LinkedIn. I sent a message.

Barely 10 minutes later, an alert appeared with a telephone number: I have an appointment for the following Saturday. I wept with joy.

The next call was to my friend Tatyana Franck.

Olivia Bransbourg

New York, January 2024