Arriving at a House the Color of Red Bean Paste in Chelsea, New York

I arrived at a house in Chelsea, New York, its color reminiscent of red bean paste. Climbing the seven steep steps, I rang the doorbell. A middle-aged woman, her face filled with caution, shouted from behind the double-glass door,
“Come back exactly at 3 PM!”

It was Sunday afternoon, precisely 3 PM — the time for Sunday Salon at Louise Bourgeois’s home. Art students, painters, and poets had gathered outside, each holding their own works. One by one, the 23 visitors entered the house, forming a line. Passing through a narrow, aged hallway, we stepped into an even more worn living room. Small chairs were arranged in a square. The dimly lit room felt like dusk had already fallen.

The space felt like two brains facing each other — one wall lined with bookshelves, the other paneled with plywood covered in clippings from Bourgeois’s past exhibitions. The only artwork by another artist seemed to be a paper cutout from Matisse’s late period. On Bourgeois’s small work desk were drinks, alcohol, and chocolates for the guests, alongside heaps of art materials and stacks of documents. Four antique lamps cast their individual glows, and a pile of old steel cabinets supported the desk. Behind it stood an archway painted in faded banana milk color, resembling a miniature triumphal arch. Its frosted glass door separated the living room from the kitchen.

It was hard to believe that a great figure like Louise Bourgeois lived in such modest surroundings. She had lived a life of wealth, yet you could feel her artist’s passion in how she spared no energy outside her work. Despite her age, her artistic output was still formidable. The more time I spent in this house, the more I grew to love its quiet elegance and inner sophistication.

At 3:45 PM, with the help of Paulo Herkenhoff — former curator at MoMA and director of the São Paulo Biennale, now director of MNBA in Rio de Janeiro — Bourgeois entered the living room with the aid of a walker. She stood about 130 cm tall, with a slender frame. On her thin ankles were black socks and brown sneakers. She wore a silver-gray cardigan, a white T-shirt, golden earrings, and a white hat. She settled into a blue sofa next to her desk, a red wool blanket draped over her knees. She looked like a figure straight out of a 17th-century Dutch portrait. Her eyes sparkled as she scanned the room. At times, she seemed like a kindly grandmother; at others, there was a flash of sharp intensity and quiet strength.

Going counterclockwise, each of the 23 visitors introduced their work. Paulo offered his insights. The energy in the room was palpable. Bourgeois clapped only once — when her friend Phyllis recited a poem. For the rest, she nodded earnestly and responded with short, sincere phrases:
“Okay, okay.”
“Fine!”
“Very nice!”
“That’s good!”

At 6:30 PM, we said our goodbyes and stepped out of that house — worn like a well-loved leather book.

(Excerpt from an interview with Louise Bourgeois, GQ Korea, October 28, 2008)