I dare say there may well be a gnashing of teeth and wailing in the streets at the passing of certain musical chaps; but no such outpouring is prevalent here in the Institute. Here in this citadel of silliness, we’re warming up to take on the next dead artist.
We are in the Netherlands today interpreting a work by a bloke about whom little is known. Details of the man’s life and times, as well as those of his family, most of whom appeared unable to escape the smell of linseed and the stain of Burnt Sienna had to be obtained from an associate’s writings and the notes of monasteries for whom he painted.
Jacob Cornelisz van Oostsanen is our man’s name. He knocked this one up for us to misinterpret. Don’t hold back.