The walls held six artists.
Carnell’s name was central. His was the only posthumous piece—significant to me, because it was the first painting I had ever officially sold. It hung here like the anchor of the exhibition.
Around it: raw, early, slightly wounded works of emerging voices the public had never heard of. Each from a different country. None had an established market yet. This was their beginning, as it was mine.
Visitors were few—barely twenty. A handful from the press, two from the Whitechapel residency in London, sent by Julian’s recommendation. A couple from the secondary market. And some curious wanderers who had stumbled in by chance.
But it was enough. Eyes lingered. The audience stayed longer than usual.
I overheard their whispers:
“Who is this?”
“Something new.”
“Ye
