At the start of this year, Lorena Levi passed away. She was a painter, a rising star in the art world, and my friend. At 29, her life was tragically cut short by pancreatic cancer and a lifelong battle with cystic fibrosis. The loss is immense, and it is felt by the many who deeply loved her.
At the prayers after her funeral, for the first time, I pay attention to the fact that the Mourner’s Kaddish does not actually mention death. I am looking at Lorena’s work behind the rabbi: two paintings flanking either side of the Torah ark at the end of the synagogue. Originally a prayer of communal exaltation for the Eternal, it seems fitting to listen to Kaddish while looking at them. They are interior scenes on bare, untreated wood – purples and reds transformed into mauve and burgundy, all under the skill of her brush. They are true to the style that was launching her career so rapidly, with top gallery representation (Marlborough added her to her roster before it shut down) and stellar group and solo shows internationally.
In her work, there are often groups of people depicted, from her life and outside of it, posing in emptied, half-imagined rooms. She described her work as “narrative painting”, and it is true: the starting point of her practice was often stories – the stories people tell themselves.
Her portraits are as much about expert play with the human form as they are about the psychology of her subjects. In them, tenderness is laced with her razor-sharp humour: both in the way figures relate to one another, and through the wit of her titles.
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