Bob Wittersheim

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 would 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.

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 would 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.

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.

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. We had a scrap of paper we'd found stuck to the back of the canvas, and 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.

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, and 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.

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, and 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.

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.

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. 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.

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.

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. 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. Just living. and being observed while they did it.

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. Just living. and being observed while they did it.

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. 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 that might have been invented. Maybe they wanted to be, to a certain extent, anonymous. just like the people in the paintings. I considered whether knowing more about them would feel like a more satisfying ending to the story. But a name was just a name after all.

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 that might have been invented. Maybe they wanted to be, to a certain extent, anonymous. just like the people in the paintings. I considered whether knowing more about them would feel like a more satisfying ending to the story. But a name was just a name after all.

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 that might have been invented. Maybe they wanted to be, to a certain extent, anonymous. just like the people in the paintings. I considered whether knowing more about them would feel like a more satisfying ending to the story. But a name was just a name after all.