"I hate him." The muttered words escape from my mouth. Inadvertently.
I am not sure to whom I am referring. The phrase was probably
triggered by the memory of a family likeness which in retrospect was
part of the attraction for a now long dead painter who insisted on being
called by his last name even in the most intimate moments. "I hate him."
At the time, his name was on everyone's tongue, and I was only a
consistently overlooked woman painter.
He is forgotten now, but I am the subject of several monographs.