There is a passage in Ann Patchett’s latest novel, Whistler, where the protagonist’s sister, Leda, a clinical psychologist in New York City, talks about the acquisition of a significant painting for her Manhattan apartment.
When asked if it was really a David Hockney in their living room, Leda explains the lengths her and her husband Steve went to in purchasing the work.
“We went out to the last leaf on the limb,” Leda liked to say, but all these years later they were happy to sit and stare at it. As it turned out, what they had bought was eternal life. The apple tree would always be glowing, the field around it would always be lush, the colours would always be more than anyone thought possible.
— Whistler, Ann Patchett
The timing felt especially poignant, as Hockney himself sadly passed away in June, the same month Whistler debuted, leaving behind him a legacy of eternal saturation. The news reached me only one week before I started reading the book, rendering his works now even more collectible. Though Whistler is a work of fiction, the concept of acquiring and collecting valuable art is something I’ve often thought about. I particularly enjoyed this piece by Eliza Kurazova about what collectors are really buying when they invest in a Mark Rothko painting.
This made me think about why we collect art in the first place... Not as an investment, nor for status, but as something that quietly enriches our everyday life.
For me, there has always been something so special in the thought of owning a piece purely for your own personal enjoyment. A great example is the above living room of art collectors Erik & Lilott Berganus in Hamburg, Germany in the 1980s. This is the kind of setup I could only dream about, but one that makes me so happy to know is out there (hopefully still) — imagine having not one, but three Twomblys in your living room. The large work is from 1971, and the two smaller pieces, 1961, and while the value of these works is significant, the space feels both warm and inviting. It’s my ideal blend of considered minimalism meets lived-in comfort. Those sofas may be a warm white, but I wouldn’t be afraid to curl up on one with a book. Nestled in between the two Twomblys above the fireplace are works by post-minimalist master, Richard Tuttle and renowned sculptor, Joel Shapiro.
What makes the Berganus’ home so compelling is that both objects and artwork integrate seamlessly with the surroundings, essentially becoming part of the furniture. There is nothing cold or precious in how the works are displayed; instead, they become part of everyday ritual. They're there not just to be admired, but enjoyed.
For paid subscribers: From a Twombly above a kitchen nook to the freeports where masterpieces sit unseen — a reflection on why the greatest collections are the ones that are actually lived with.
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