New York (Peony) by Gregory Krum

Thursday greetings, collector friends! Unlikely as it may seem, I've genuinely missed you all. I consider it a privilege to write about art and artists, and it's an even greater one to do so knowing that at least a few people are going to actually read this newsletter. Even better still? Some lucky few of you will be living with the art I write about!

Today's edition—New York (Peony)—is a special one indeed. Its elegance, beauty and melancholy are so evocative of its creator, Gregory Krum, that I've come to see it as a self-portrait of sorts.

You might be wondering why you would want a self-portrait of one of my dearest friends hanging on your walls. Or how on earth I see a self-portrait in a vase of dying flowers. And maybe you're even thinking that Gregory's going to be mighty peeved that I've likened him to a subject so sad. (Fortunately, when I mentioned this to Greg on the phone the other day, he was actually quite pleased.)

The ability to feel an ache all the way to your core—to have that openness to emotion at all—it unlocks all the beauty in the world. Sometimes it's too much. If you're someone like my dear Mr. Krum, this too much-ness will cause you to knit up your eyebrows and sigh in the most heartfelt of ways. When he does this, I think of my most beloved short stories, tragic heroines, classical paintings in the dusty halls of museums and of my favorite poet, Frank O'Hara.

This photograph reminds me of him when he's like that, which reminds me that to feel anything at all, and to feel it deeply, is to be alive.