“Do you have any photos in his studio while working? Or together with other artists, at exhibitions?” I asked, hoping to speed things up.
“There must be something of that sort. Now, here,” she said, unfolding a piece of yellow paper, “we have a poster for the artists’ carnival in 1919! That was an event to remember! Nothing nowadays can compare. The war had ended. People were celebrating, after all those senseless deaths.”
Here was some information that might be worth recording. I opened my notebook, sat with pen poised. “You mean the Carnival of the Institute of Beaux Arts? Did Ortiz attend?”
The paper trembled in her hands. “Well, you can’t expect me to remember that! He probably did. Everyone who was still alive wanted to be there. The 1919 Carnival was special because it could be pu
