Art Office

On Wednesday, April 26, Studio Art Office organized a second information afternoon about artists' legacy, with the aim of making thinking about inheritance a natural part of professional practice. Writer Lena van Tijen closed the afternoon with a column specially written for this afternoon: The art of leaving behind. In 2022, Van Tijen received the Prize for Young Art Criticism for her essay Mag het weg?, in which she writes about the dilemma of whether and how you, as a surviving relative, want to deal with an artist's legacy.

The art of leaving behind

A while ago I was quietly watching an art house film that was babbling on when I was startled by the following scene: the main character Sandra is sitting on a bed with her daughter in the house of Esther, a former student of Sandra's father. The father, Georg, suffers from dementia. And he's going backwards. Until recently he was still a philosophy professor at the university, now he can no longer recognize his children. Georg's condition has deteriorated so much in a short time that his family has decided to have him admitted to a care institution. They still have another problem: what to do with his beloved books.  

In one of the first scenes of the film, Sandra and her mother (Georg's ex-wife) face each other in his apartment. "What do we do with all his books?" Sandra asks. 'I do not know? Give away… or throw away.” mumbles the mother. She sounds careful, she knows that what she says will not go down well. 'What? Why not burn it right away?' Sandra says shocked. "Those books are his life." To which the mother replies: 'Yes, dear. But what can we do?' 

And then there is Esther, Georg's former student who is willing to house the collection in its entirety. 'You can take them back whenever you want. They will continue to book you.' she says to Sandra, who looks thoughtfully at the full bookcases: "I feel closer to him with his books than with him." 'Why?' her daughter asks. As if waking up from a dream, Sandra says: 'Because I recognize more of him in his books than in that home. There is his bodily shell, here his soul.' "He didn't write those books." says the daughter. "But sorted out." answers Sandra 'And his personality is reflected in his books. As if every book is a shade of color and all books together form his portrait.' 

This scene is from the movie One fine morning (2022) directed by Mia Hansen-Løve. Sandra (played by Léa Seydoux) has more on her mind at this point in the story than her father's condition or a destination for his books. She is a single mother who has become involved in an affair with her childhood friend Clément. Every time she visits Georg (played by Pascal Greggory) in one of the three nursing homes he lives in in the film, the viewer sees her turning into herself. She distances herself. Because staying close hurts too much.  

I have a theory: that Sandra wouldn't have started the relationship with Clément if her father hadn't been so bad. Not to detract from Clément, but in my opinion this certainly plays a role. People make radical decisions when faced with the imminent death of someone they love. This seems like a whole degression from the issue of artist archives, but I now come to my point: what I appreciate so much about Sandra is that at the same time she wants the best for her father (and his things), but that she also realizes that she not can offer. And maybe they don't wil. 

In 2018 an article appeared in the NRC with the inflammatory title: An artist can die a second death. The article talks about how you deal with his legacy as heirs of a famous artist. This is done on the basis of conversations that journalist Rianne van Dijck had during a symposium in Berlin, organized by the Institute for Artists' Estates located there. Speakers include Hella Wenders (niece of director Wim Wenders), Vesta Kroese (daughter of painter Ad Kroese, who died in 2001) and Ben and Sacha Bowling (sons of painter Frank Bowling). Some of the artists spoken of are still alive. Their descendants will be present at the symposium to prepare for what is to come.  

Loretta Würtenberger, who founded the Institute for Artists' Estates with her husband Daniel Tümpel, tells Van Dijck that an artist can die two deaths: one physical and one artistic. The latter happens when their legacy is lost sight of by the public. According to her, an artist's family is not always the best party to turn this tide because they also feel emotionally involved in the work. 'Not only the life of an artist is finite, sometimes an oeuvre is too. You have to investigate that.' Würtenberger said. According to her, just 'being related to' is not enough to manage an estate: 'An estate can be a major player in the art market.' she says and continues, 'You don't manage something like that from your living room. You really have to be a manager.' 

Next to can not be purchased according to Würtenberger, there is also a question want to. By the time their parents die, children are usually around middle age themselves. They have their own lives, a family, a career. 'That parent, from whom they have usually detached themselves, suddenly comes very close again.' says Würtenberger. When I read the article I added in my head: 'And the question is whether that is something you should want.'  

The reason I was startled by the scene from One fine morning is because I also struggle with the question: what to do with my father's books? As far as that goes, I have reconciled myself to the fact that my father – an artist and archivist – will pass away in the foreseeable future. Fortunately, unlike the father from the film, he is still in good health. Still, he's almost eighty. And as much as I hope it won't happen to him, we all meet death sooner or later. My father has been organizing his archive for years. There is not yet a foundation to manage his estate. And often I'm afraid it never will.  

I am also concerned about his second death (the dying of his archive ergo life's work). Especially since I may have an active part in this death. Like Sandra, I know that I cannot take care of his archive. I could hope for an Esther to come and help me. But in my case that is – I think – vain hope. In addition, I think we should not overload the Esthers of the world. We have to be honest when we ask ourselves whether we should not use an archive can not be purchased or whether we simply do not want to.  

In one of the last scenes from One fine morning Sandra is visiting her father with Clément and her daughter. Georg is finally in a suitable nursing home in the center of Paris instead of the desolate suburban care home where he previously stayed. The trio has just returned from a holiday on the Amalfi Coast. They are tanned and they are happy. Then a girl scout knocks on the door to say that there will be singing in the common room. Sandra and hers connect.  

A little later, the residents sing a chanson under the guidance of the boy scouts. And Georg also appears to know the words. He sings along with his eyes closed. Up to that point, Sandra has been withdrawn. With tears in her eyes she leaves the room and Clément follows her. She wants to leave, she says. Shortly afterwards, the family walks to the viewpoint at the Sacré-Cœur. At first Sandra seems shaken, but slowly she comes back to herself. Life goes on - even if you decide to run away.  

The message I take away from Mia Hansen-Løve's film and from the NRC article is that giving up is also an art. Especially when what is being relinquished is the legacy of someone you care about. Sometimes an Esther offers solace. Other times it isn't.  

You don't love your parents less if you choose not to manage their records, just as you don't care less about them if you decide to put them in a care facility instead of caring for them yourself. You're just not the right person. In some cases, it's because you don't can, in others because you don't wil. And both reasons are equally legitimate.

Photo: Merel van den Enden