World’s biggest fan
of Rembrandt was a man I knew indirectly. And when I say biggest, I mean he had
every single book written about the man – however derivative and insignificant.
Millions upon millions of reproductions, printed on the same pages and in the
same colours, it was an OCD-type situation.
Quite simply, you
didn’t have a cat in hell’s chance to not
be overpowered by him when discussing Dutch art. The way he talked about
Rembrandt was sheer drunken poetry, and even more fascinating was his disdain
for 20th century painters. If you told him you liked Picasso, he
would wish you to have women exactly
the way Picasso drew them. Abstract, angular, sketchy.
The man was a
character. He was about 70, he played a 7-string guitar. Also, I think he was
unmarried.
