Bob Wittersheim

At the end of a summer, when kids were going back to school, and the sunlight was just beginning to take on that golden autumn overlay, I'd found a class in the community education brochure for art restoration, step-by-step. and I thought of the painting. In it, a woman in simple clothes looked over her shoulder, out of a window, behind her to a green landscape.

She held a book in one hand, and the room she sat in was paneled in wood, with a shelf full of jars and bottles above her head. There was a dark smudge in one corner that we'd always thought might be a signature. I'd taken her down from her nail and signed up for the class. She and I had spent the next few months at the community center where we'd gotten to know each other a lot better.

She held a book in one hand, and the room she sat in was paneled in wood, with a shelf full of jars and bottles above her head. There was a dark smudge in one corner that we'd always thought might be a signature. I'd taken her down from her nail and signed up for the class. She and I had spent the next few months at the community center where we'd gotten to know each other a lot better.

She held a book in one hand, and the room she sat in was paneled in wood, with a shelf full of jars and bottles above her head. There was a dark smudge in one corner that we'd always thought might be a signature. I'd taken her down from her nail and signed up for the class. She and I had spent the next few months at the community center where we'd gotten to know each other a lot better.

It is a strange thing To spend so much time with your attention centered on one face felt like a kind of communion, not just with the subject, but with the painter, whoever they are. and finding out had been the most intriguing part of the process. We'd started, the half dozen of us in the class, plus the teacher, by carefully freeing our paintings from their frames. It had taken patience,

It is a strange thing To spend so much time with your attention centered on one face felt like a kind of communion, not just with the subject, but with the painter, whoever they are. and finding out had been the most intriguing part of the process. We'd started, the half dozen of us in the class, plus the teacher, by carefully freeing our paintings from their frames. It had taken patience,

It is a strange thing To spend so much time with your attention centered on one face felt like a kind of communion, not just with the subject, but with the painter, whoever they are. and finding out had been the most intriguing part of the process. We'd started, the half dozen of us in the class, plus the teacher, by carefully freeing our paintings from their frames. It had taken patience,

and a bit of hard work to take out the tacks that had been in place for so long. But once it was done, we each laid our canvases or boards on clean workspaces and looked at their backs. one of my fellow students, had a painting found at a garage sale.

and a bit of hard work to take out the tacks that had been in place for so long. But once it was done, we each laid our canvases or boards on clean workspaces and looked at their backs. one of my fellow students, had a painting found at a garage sale.

and a bit of hard work to take out the tacks that had been in place for so long. But once it was done, we each laid our canvases or boards on clean workspaces and looked at their backs. one of my fellow students, had a painting found at a garage sale.

And though any work of art has value, his piece, a simple vase of flowers, was being restored more for the experience of working on it than the work itself. The flowers had been painted on a piece of board. And on its back, we'd found a signature in ink pen with a date. It had sent us all into a fever of curiosity. Who was the woman who'd painted the flowers? And what was her life like?

And though any work of art has value, his piece, a simple vase of flowers, was being restored more for the experience of working on it than the work itself. The flowers had been painted on a piece of board. And on its back, we'd found a signature in ink pen with a date. It had sent us all into a fever of curiosity. Who was the woman who'd painted the flowers? And what was her life like?

And though any work of art has value, his piece, a simple vase of flowers, was being restored more for the experience of working on it than the work itself. The flowers had been painted on a piece of board. And on its back, we'd found a signature in ink pen with a date. It had sent us all into a fever of curiosity. Who was the woman who'd painted the flowers? And what was her life like?

Her restorer had eventually found her in a yearbook at the high school. And he'd brought it in for us all to look at. We'd crowded around his table and peered down at her picture, taken almost 50 years before. She had a big 70s collar, a natural hair, and a high puff. She'd been in the winter drama that year,

Her restorer had eventually found her in a yearbook at the high school. And he'd brought it in for us all to look at. We'd crowded around his table and peered down at her picture, taken almost 50 years before. She had a big 70s collar, a natural hair, and a high puff. She'd been in the winter drama that year,

Her restorer had eventually found her in a yearbook at the high school. And he'd brought it in for us all to look at. We'd crowded around his table and peered down at her picture, taken almost 50 years before. She had a big 70s collar, a natural hair, and a high puff. She'd been in the winter drama that year,

and played volleyball, and, at least according to the date on the back of the board, painted those flowers. I'd sighed with satisfaction when I'd seen her, and felt like reading the last chapter in a good book. I found I appreciated her painting even more. It meant more to me, knowing something about her.

and played volleyball, and, at least according to the date on the back of the board, painted those flowers. I'd sighed with satisfaction when I'd seen her, and felt like reading the last chapter in a good book. I found I appreciated her painting even more. It meant more to me, knowing something about her.

and played volleyball, and, at least according to the date on the back of the board, painted those flowers. I'd sighed with satisfaction when I'd seen her, and felt like reading the last chapter in a good book. I found I appreciated her painting even more. It meant more to me, knowing something about her.

And it made me even more curious about my painting, the woman seated in that room, and whoever it was who painted her. When I'd first opened the back of the frame, I'd hoped there would be a label, a tag, something to send me in a clear direction. But all I'd found was a scrap of paper that had a few words on it. and most of them had been cut in half when the scrap was torn from a larger sheet.