Naam en adres c. 1934s

Here is a page with text, seemingly an address, made by Carel Adolph Lion Cachet. I imagine the artist pausing, pencil in hand, over this creamy page. A name, a street number, a city – details emerging from the blankness through Cachet's hand. It’s like a whisper, this writing. Thin lines, almost disappearing into the surface. What was Cachet thinking as he wrote? Was it a note to himself, a reminder, or something else entirely? Painters are often collagists, bricoleurs of time. Cy Twombly’s scrawls come to mind, or even some of Dorothea Tanning’s ghostly hotels. Each artist is like a detective, piecing together fragments of existence. Ultimately, it's the artist's touch, the pressure of the pencil, that lingers. It’s a record of a moment, a thought, an intention. And in that simple act of inscription, a world of possibilities opens up. It’s like all painters are always in conversation.