Unfinished: A Saint. A Sister. A Warhol. And Me
No one standing in the room noticed the painting. Likely because it was behind a table carrying an assortment of distractions: lamps, jewelry, and a chest of antique Polish paintings of the Madonna. The woman running the estate sale noticed what made me pause, a painting of Andy Warhol. I felt like a pupil in school when she asked, “Do you see the eye? It creeps me out.” Sure enough as I squinted and refocused my attention – I did see the faint ghost of an eye in the right lens of Warhol’s signature black sunglasses. And he was looking at us. It was eerie. I moved on.
In the kitchen there was another small silver framed painting of the famous artist, but not so arresting. Then in the back room, there were large and small canvases, mostly unfinished works. One was especially alarming. It took up half the wall, a pale alien shaped face with black holes for eyes. I imagined these works done by the same artist. The next room had another massive painting, this one of a young woman with strands of long disheveled hair wearing sunglasses. Like the Warhol in the living room, squinting my eyes, I could again see one eye beneath the right lens.
I found I’d circled back into the living room where the woman was running the sale. I asked about the Warhol image lost behind the knickknacks. It turned out the artist whose work was sprinkled throughout the house was done by her sister, Allie. The entire estate sale was the contents of her sister’s belongings. She said the piece I was admiring was done when Allie was in a good state of mind to paint. I didn’t know exactly what she meant, but I could guess by the sad longing expression it meant Allie left a lot incomplete – I’m guessing on and off the canvas – hence all the unfinished works in the back bedroom. Motioning me to follow her back to the room with the unfinished canvases, she acknowledged being creeped out by a lot of her sister’s work. Maybe half-joking, she pointed to a painting of her nephew saying, “Yeah, I think the oil paints got to her on this one.” She continued with a quiet laugh, “this one was so scary, not even the nephew wanted it.” She wasn’t wrong, the image was disturbing. But I’ll give her sister this – like the Warhol in the living room – it stayed with.
Allie’s sister repeatedly commented on some art guy who wanted to buy both the Warhol and the self-portrait of her sister. “You know artists are worth more dead than alive.” It wasn’t said with crass, it was said like she was hearing her words for the first time. Silence followed.
I asked if it became available whether she would consider selling it to me. She sold it on the spot. She said it felt good to sell to someone who seemed to get her sister’s work. She shared that Allie went to art school in NYC, even claimed to have hung out with Warhol back in her NYC days, but it was obvious by her sister’s tone the family questioned her story. (But I sensed she hoped it might be.)
I don’t know what any of this means or why I’m telling it. But I know from looking through Allie’s bookshelves we were both fascinated by saints, Napoleon Bonaparte, antiquities and a snaggle-toothed art historian, Sister Wendy Beckett. Sister Wendy had enlightened me with her show on the BBC until her death in 2018. And I wondered if her death had wounded Allie like it did me. Her sister offered to give me all of Allie’s books. I appreciated the generosity, but explained I already had most of them.
Instinct told me Allie was often reluctant to express and paint the unseen interiors, often dark, that lurk below our surfaces – hence the unfinished works. But sometimes Allie didn’t hold back, even when it meant causing discomfort. I didn’t buy the spellbinding self-portrait of Allie, it rattled me. It mirrored the withdrawn sad parts of myself. Allie’s sister told me the painting disturbed her too. I wondered if she saw what I did and I wondered if Allie felt what I did? A self reflection of hopes and dreams unfinished.
I like to imagine the saints and sister Wendy welcoming Allie into their fold as happily as I am to have discovered her work in the humble home where she lived and painted until she died.
