Oh, love

Oh, love

Theresa G. Burroughs / October 26, 2018

Yes, the artists. Of course they know more about love than others: that’s why we explore Eve in a thousand pictures with their gaze, that’s why we look in the novels for a trace that might have escaped us. “I intoxicate myself with the memory of one of those brief moments of lust through which you make me so happy,” Balzac wrote to the wife of another: “You see, the love of a poet always holds a little madness. Only we artists fully understand the value of you women, because we ourselves are a little feminine”.

Yes, love. Who could, even if he is not an artist, let it go? Where would we go? And yet we otherwise live without illusions. Who of us still believes in space shuttles or nuclear power plants? But everyone believes in love. It explains some human wanderings – and yet it itself is no longer in need of any explanation. Last instance! Almost every behavior finds a mild judge, it recalls itself: Love. Whether a public prosecutor for a thief forges checks, whether a manager leaves job and home, whether a mother with three children moves to her underage lover: One word only – and who wouldn’t show understanding?

Love is also the explanation. This is also the explanation of the wife of the almost seventy-year-old painter Andrew Wyeth, who enjoys unprecedented admiration in America, for the creation of those forty paintings and two hundred drawings that appeared overnight. Then the man opened his secret archive, which not even his own wife wants to have known – and America stands upside down, as if a nude picture of Mona Lisa had been discovered. But the woman in the pictures is called Helga, and over a period of fifteen years she has repeatedly stood, sat and lain Wyeth as a model. Now we can all see it. In series. And it is said that the bundle was sold to a private collector for ten million dollars.

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