Bob Wittersheim

If only I stayed at my bench and I found myself thinking of it when I woke up each morning about what the next step would be and what tools I'd use in the process. In the studio, we had a collection of brushes and swabs, bottles of purified water, and mild olive oil-based soaps. There were small hammers to put tacks back into place.

cans of varnish and strips of gentle adhesive, paints and magnifiers, something like a jeweler's loop that could be worn right on your head and focused in front of your eyes. I liked those a lot and marveled at the small things I'd spot in the painting when I had them on that I'd never have otherwise known about. It was a bit like finding a message in a bottle.

cans of varnish and strips of gentle adhesive, paints and magnifiers, something like a jeweler's loop that could be worn right on your head and focused in front of your eyes. I liked those a lot and marveled at the small things I'd spot in the painting when I had them on that I'd never have otherwise known about. It was a bit like finding a message in a bottle.

cans of varnish and strips of gentle adhesive, paints and magnifiers, something like a jeweler's loop that could be worn right on your head and focused in front of your eyes. I liked those a lot and marveled at the small things I'd spot in the painting when I had them on that I'd never have otherwise known about. It was a bit like finding a message in a bottle.

something written years ago, and waiting for the right person to open up and know again. Once the painting was clean and restored, I'd covered the surface in a smooth layer of varnish, which sealed and protected it, but also gave it a satisfying and uniform shine. As it sat to cure in a corner of the shop, my teacher and I dug into the hunt for the artist who'd painted this piece.

something written years ago, and waiting for the right person to open up and know again. Once the painting was clean and restored, I'd covered the surface in a smooth layer of varnish, which sealed and protected it, but also gave it a satisfying and uniform shine. As it sat to cure in a corner of the shop, my teacher and I dug into the hunt for the artist who'd painted this piece.

something written years ago, and waiting for the right person to open up and know again. Once the painting was clean and restored, I'd covered the surface in a smooth layer of varnish, which sealed and protected it, but also gave it a satisfying and uniform shine. As it sat to cure in a corner of the shop, my teacher and I dug into the hunt for the artist who'd painted this piece.

We had a scrap of paper we'd found stuck to the back of the canvas when we'd taken it from the frame. It had a few letters that might be part of a last name, also a city, and what I took to be a date. If I was right, my painting had been made in September, 142 years before. While I'd been in the process of cleaning all those years of soot and dust from the piece,

We had a scrap of paper we'd found stuck to the back of the canvas when we'd taken it from the frame. It had a few letters that might be part of a last name, also a city, and what I took to be a date. If I was right, my painting had been made in September, 142 years before. While I'd been in the process of cleaning all those years of soot and dust from the piece,

We had a scrap of paper we'd found stuck to the back of the canvas when we'd taken it from the frame. It had a few letters that might be part of a last name, also a city, and what I took to be a date. If I was right, my painting had been made in September, 142 years before. While I'd been in the process of cleaning all those years of soot and dust from the piece,

we'd found a small and barely decipherable signature in the bottom right corner. Thankfully, my teacher had recognized it. Otherwise, I'm sure it would still be a mystery. The painter wasn't famous, though. just a favorite of hers, who had painted for 30 years or more, mostly portraits of people who were themselves also not famous.

we'd found a small and barely decipherable signature in the bottom right corner. Thankfully, my teacher had recognized it. Otherwise, I'm sure it would still be a mystery. The painter wasn't famous, though. just a favorite of hers, who had painted for 30 years or more, mostly portraits of people who were themselves also not famous.

we'd found a small and barely decipherable signature in the bottom right corner. Thankfully, my teacher had recognized it. Otherwise, I'm sure it would still be a mystery. The painter wasn't famous, though. just a favorite of hers, who had painted for 30 years or more, mostly portraits of people who were themselves also not famous.

She showed me a small collection of them in a book, and I attentively looked at each one, there was a man sitting with a bowl of soup in front of him, tearing a piece of bread from a loaf, and, it seemed, talking to someone not pictured. There was a family walking in a field, someone in a thick winter coat reaching out to buy a newspaper at a stand. A woman planting a bulb in a flower garden.

She showed me a small collection of them in a book, and I attentively looked at each one, there was a man sitting with a bowl of soup in front of him, tearing a piece of bread from a loaf, and, it seemed, talking to someone not pictured. There was a family walking in a field, someone in a thick winter coat reaching out to buy a newspaper at a stand. A woman planting a bulb in a flower garden.

She showed me a small collection of them in a book, and I attentively looked at each one, there was a man sitting with a bowl of soup in front of him, tearing a piece of bread from a loaf, and, it seemed, talking to someone not pictured. There was a family walking in a field, someone in a thick winter coat reaching out to buy a newspaper at a stand. A woman planting a bulb in a flower garden.

Like the lady in my painting, none of these people were looking at the painter. They'd been captured in something more like a casual photograph, just living and being observed while they did it. Mine wasn't in the book, and neither was much about the painter themselves. They were known only by a first initial and a surname, and that might have been invented,

Like the lady in my painting, none of these people were looking at the painter. They'd been captured in something more like a casual photograph, just living and being observed while they did it. Mine wasn't in the book, and neither was much about the painter themselves. They were known only by a first initial and a surname, and that might have been invented,

Like the lady in my painting, none of these people were looking at the painter. They'd been captured in something more like a casual photograph, just living and being observed while they did it. Mine wasn't in the book, and neither was much about the painter themselves. They were known only by a first initial and a surname, and that might have been invented,

Maybe they wanted to be, to a certain extent, anonymous, just like the people in the painting. I considered whether knowing more about them would feel like a more satisfying ending to the story. But a name is just a name, after all. And the real clue to who the painter and subjects were seemed to lay in the work itself. This was a person who admired simple aspects of living.