Zdzislaw Ruszkowski
Catalogue Introduction

This is not a conventional introduction to an art catalogue. When I started writing, all manner of thoughts and memories from my youth flooded into my mind, all those childhood and teenage experiences that form the character, set patterns and influence adult behavior. I decided to describe my early life as a prelude to becoming a collector. My background, my parents and the profound influence Ruszkowski had on me especially in the view of the poor relationship I had with my father. So, in this introduction I bare my soul. 

I was born into a dysfunctional family on the 1st December 1946. To my parents' great surprise, my sister appeared first and I appeared two cigarettes later. My mother and father met in 1944 during the war. My mother worked for the BBC under Herbert Lom who became a well-known actor. My father was on leave from active service. He was serving in "Combined Operations" and held the rank of Major. They shared a similar background; both born in Russia, both escaping the revolution in 1917 when the Bolsheviks took over the country. My mother was only two years old when they fled, via Turkey and Paris, to London. My father was ten and took the eastern European route via Poland, Germany and, in 1932, England. However, Russian born and Russian speaking was where these similarities ended. They were mismatched from the day they met. Only the war influenced them to rush into marriage so shortly after meeting. They had nothing in common. My mother was vivacious, sociable, irresponsible and hedonistic. My father was humourless, frugal, responsible and moody. 

I don't have an exceptional memory, nor do I keep a diary, so my childhood memories are rather vague. At the age of four, I developed whooping cough followed by severe asthma, which discolored my life until the age of thirteen. The slightest exertion could trigger an attack and I spent long periods absent from school and long nights struggling for breath. In moments of respite I would cycle to the local park to escape the heavy atmosphere, smoke filled rooms and long silences created by my father's depression. When he developed a stomach ulcer he became even more intolerable. My mother's frame of mind fluctuated according to my father's mood and we all lived for his frequent business trips. Without him the three of us could let our hair down, laugh and relax. As children, my sister and I found him a strict disciplinarian. I was frightened of his anger and abrupt mood changes so kept out of his way as much as possible. That's what I remember most from my childhood. In adult life, looking back, I can now sympathize with his low self-esteem, loneliness, insecurity and need to criticize everyone and everything to boost his ego. His ambition to study engineering was thwarted by events beyond his control. He joined his uncle's import and export business, which he never liked, and was nicknamed "The Arctic Depression" by his peers. My generation, born in the post war years, never experienced life as a refugee, not belonging or as in the case of my father, separated from his parents for seventeen years at the age of twelve. Constantly on the move, Russia, Poland and Germany, where Russians were considered second class citizens, to England, where he established his roots and became fiercely proud of his British nationality. He immediately volunteered for the army in 1939 as soon as war broke out, only to have to pick up the pieces of what remained of his business when he was demobbed in 1945. 

I don't know what inner need caused me to be so acquisitive at such a young age. At prep school I amassed a huge collection of cigarette cards, which were so popular at the time. Before buying my first painting I used my pocket money to build a much-prized collection of antique daggers. There must be a collector's gene somewhere in my chemistry. At thirteen I was packed off to Trent College, a boarding school in the Midlands, where the regime hadn't changed since the Empire building days of the 19th century. After the culture shock of the fagging system and bullying, I settled down and thoroughly enjoyed my schooldays. My asthma disappeared almost overnight and I represented the school at rugby, hockey and tennis. I volunteered for every army camp and extra curricular activity in order to shorten the holidays and discouraged my parents from visiting in between terms. I have fond memories of the school and was sad to leave. At eighteen I decided against university and found a Job with an insurance company at the salary of £8.50 a week. After six months a colleague left to start a brokerage business and asked me to join him. I mentioned it to my father who by this time had severed ties with his existing partner. He came up with a suggestion that sounded quite appealing. I would work as an apprentice with his clients in Switzerland, Italy and France to learn the languages and then join his business on my return. At this stage my sister worked for him as a secretory/bookkeeper and in a moment of judgmental blindness I agreed to his proposal. But I mustn't digress too for from the point of this introduction, which is to discuss my art collection. 

Between leaving school and the country I lived at home with my parents in East Finchley, North London. I frequently visited the charming Hampstead village for a walk on the heath and a coffee in Heath Street. On one occasion I noticed a portrait in a restaurant, half-length, of a beautiful woman. It was for sale at £35, a fortune in the mid sixties. I couldn't get the image out of my mind and was mesmerised by it. I had never thought of buying a work of art before but found this portrait irresistible. I asked the manager if he would arrange a meeting with the artist who subsequently sold me the picture for £30. It all but emptied my Post Office Savings account and it was the last time for several decades that I paid in full for a painting. Thereafter I could only afford to purchase on the installment system and as I was a prompt payer, credit flowed. That was how it all started. I visited the artist's studio and began to mix in his circle where I met other artists and purchased works from them. I remember befriending a painter in his late forties with a young son and arthritic wife. When he developed pneumonia, being too ill to occupy his patch on the railings at Green Park in Piccadilly, London, I offered to take over from him. What an eye opener, how rude, insensitive and dismissive the public can be. The easiest clients were the prostitutes who worked at Shepherds market. They were enthusiastic and paid cash. The rudest were the Americans. It was a useful experience, educational and fun; in fact, I proved quite successful with fabrications about a dying artist, a genius too sick to paint, running out of works to sell - a Modigliani figure. It seemed to convince some of the public to buy and in fact, I sold more than the artist during my 3 months at the Park. Again, through Green Park I met other painters, some of whom became friends and I spent many an enjoyable evening with them drinking and discussing art, women and life. My father was appalled by my new interest and initially I had to hide the paintings from him. Despite this, in only one year my walls were covered with oils and watercolours. This all came to an end in the winter of 1965 when I left for Switzerland. I had found it difficult to adjust to life at home as all those unpleasant childhood memories came flooding back. Prior to my departure I worked with my father and discovered he was just as difficult and intolerant in the office as he was at home. However, I was looking forward to independence in Europe and that thought kept me going. Two events stand out from that year. I rashly bought a 1954 Triumph TR2 for £150 and after only two weeks of posing, I wrapped it around a taxi and was prosecuted for careless driving - which I deserved. If the accident hadn't occurred, the car would have fallen to bits anyway without any help from me. It was a lesson in the dangers of being over enthusiastic which was, and still is, a feature of my character. My father saw it as an act of dire irresponsibility and stopped talking to me. I was so crestfallen and angry with myself that I became demoralized and soon after developed jaundice and glandular fever. It knocked me out for two months; hardly had I recovered when I left for Zurich. 

If you can imagine a shy nineteen year old entering a xenophobic country without any knowledge of the language, no friends and an extremely limited salary, that was me. At times I was so lonely that I would sit in my room writing bad poetry and short stories, but I did come back to England a year later speaking German and with improved skiing skills. Shortly afterwards I left for Milan, an altogether much more enjoyable experience, where I lived with an Egyptian family in a small flat off Via Washington. It began a lifelong affection for Italy and the Italians. I received letters from my mother in which she described in venomous terms her hatred of the German au pair she had just engaged. When I returned to England after nine months, I moved back into my parents’ house and completely disagreed with my mother's view of the au pair. Soon I was creeping into her bedroom when everyone else had gone to bed. Then my life unexpectedly changed. Coming out of her room one night I trod on the dog who made such a noise that my parents appeared and found me stark naked on the landing. To his credit, my father didn't think it was so terrible. My mother, however, was absolutely furious and threw the au pair out. I thought this was an over reaction and left home with her. We eventually rented a tiny room in Fitzjohns Avenue in Hampstead. The kitchen stove was next to the bath so you could shower and fry chips at the same time. Before long, however, we started to get on each other's nerves and it was a relief when I left for Paris. 

Paris followed the same pattern. A very small salary, a tiny hotel room in rue de Petites-Ecuries in the 10th arrondissement close to the Folies Bergere, no friends and with only school French to rely on. Under any circumstances Paris is an inspiring place to live; the architecture, the street cafe society, the culture. It rekindled my interest in art, this time as a frequent visitor to the museums and galleries as well as the hustle and bustle of the famous tourist attraction, the Place du Tertre in Montmartre. A friend from my days at the railing of Green Park came to Paris and took me to meet his art tutor, a Polish artist by the name Markiel who was a figurative painter in the style of the 17thc. Dutch artists. Markiel and his wife had both survived Auschwitz concentration camp, which left its mark on their health. They were very kind and hospitable and introduced me to the famous studios of La Ruche in the 15th arrondissement on the left bank. When I returned to Paris in the early seventies and tried to contact them, I was shocked to discover they were both dead. 

In my free time I stood in awe in front of masterpieces from the Impressionists, the Barbizon school and the Ecole de Paris. I soon realized that my walls in London were full of commercial rubbish. As Ruszkowski told me some years later you can only learn about art by being exposed to real quality. When I asked what constitutes great art, he replied that it is art that stands the test of time and is not washed away by the tide of fashion. I returned from Paris full of enthusiasm at the end of 1968 and within a few months and with the help of a loan from a friend of my mother's, bought a small modern flat in Sydney Road, Muswell Hill for £5800. I was permanently free from home life - what a relief it was. In the meantime my mother, whom I hadn't spoken to for six months when I left home with the au pair, informed me that family friends of our important Swiss client, who I worked for in Zurich, wanted their daughter to come to England to learn English and had offered her a job. I received a long lecture in the form of a warning not to have anything to do with this 18-year-old girl whom my mother viewed as her responsibility. I agreed and not long afterwards this stunning teenager arrived at the family home. Her name was Fiorella. To begin with I was as good as my word but as Fiorella was lonely and bored and as I spoke Italian and she couldn't speak a word of English, my mother asked me if I could show her around London - what a tactical error! We soon began an affair in the greatest of secrecy with great attention to detail against discovery. All went well for some months until my mother came into the kitchen during one of my visits and caught us holding hands by the kettle. Quite innocent really, but my mother was no fool and Fiorella was sacked. She came to live with me and so began anther long spell of not speaking to my mother. At least things were out in the open, which made life less complicated. 

During this time I was friendly with a Polish art and antique dealer who owned the Centaur Gallery in Highgate. He and his wife were Bohemians and gave wonderful parties. It was at one of these parties and indirectly through Fiorella that I came to meet Ruszkowski. I had often heard his name mentioned and knew that he was highly respected by his peers, many of whom considered him to be one of the most important painters working in England at the time. It was 1972 and I was twenty-six years old. In spite of the many guests mingling in the room, Ruszkowski noticed Fiorella and went to speak to her. She told him of my interest in art and he was reluctantly dragged off to meet me, protesting that he preferred the company of attractive women to their male friends. We were subsequently invited to his studio in Lyndhurst Road to see his paintings. I was immediately drawn to the strength of the colour in the portrait of the artist George Lambourne (illustration ... ). This was my first purchase, on credit, of a Ruszkowski painting and it was the start of our close friendship and my collection of his work. He wanted to paint Fiorella's portrait and made an appointment for her to attend the studio. She arrived late. He was furious so this first portrait was not a great success. The second watercolour some weeks later was charming. When he decided to paint her in oil, (illustration no ... ), he came over to the house to select the dress she should wear and was amazed at how bare her clothes cupboard was. There were, however, pictures scattered throughout the house and financial commitments galore. In 1973 Fiorella and I were married. The marriage only lasted three years and in 1976 we divorced. Looking back I was headstrong, selfish and wild. My restlessness must have exhausted her and she returned to her parents' beautiful home in the mountains above Lago Maggiorre in Ticino on the Swiss border with Italy. It is to my lasting satisfaction that we have remained close friends for over thirty years. 

From 1976 I was driven by three things in no particular order, art, women and food. I worked extremely hard, often at weekends, but outside the office my only responsibility was to my dog who I adored. She was captured so sensitively by Ruszkowski in his painting entitled Portrait of Michael Simonow and Sue in 1981 which now hangs in the Abbaye de Flaran in the south west of France (illustration ... ) but I'll come to that later. In my spare time I would often pop into Ruszkowski's for a glass of wine or a cup of tea. Before allowing me into the studio, he would hide his works in progress, which I was only allowed to see when completed. It was a privilege being one of the first to view these new works and allowed me to build a collection of exceptional quality before the competition got a look in. I feel sure he saw me as a guardian and future champion of his art and over the decades this is what I have tried to be. Whenever he came back from a painting trip, he would hand me his sketchbook of watercolours, inviting me to select a few. This is how I've accumulated so many. He viewed them only as preliminary preparations for his works in oil but, in fact, they are of great beauty and artistic value in their own right. 

As I had no formal education in art, Ruszkowski became my mentor. Before our meeting my tastes were rather narrow and conservative, with my collection mainly consisting of portraits. He broadened my knowledge and understanding of art, made me aware of the importance of colour, gave me books to read and took me to galleries and exhibitions. There is no better art teacher than an artist and I was amazed at his powers of observation. He drew my attention to aspects of a painting I would never have noticed. He went straight to the point, not only in his critical appraisal of a work of art, but also in his view of life. He was highly intelligent and articulate, well read and had that ability of reducing a complicated argument to its essential facts. I admired his logic and incisiveness and was influenced by his views. He was the first person I would consult when faced with a personal problem and his advice was invaluable. He was pensive and a good listener. He never spoke for the sake of it, as most of us do. Whatever he said was interesting and worth listening to. His life in Paris between 1935-1940 was during the final years of the Ecole de Paris. I sat fascinated by the descriptions of that world around Montparnasse before the war. He knew many of the artists who belonged to the community that centered around the famous cafe Le Dome. Artists now legends such as Brancussi, Giacometti, Kisling, Modigliani's close friend, the Chilean artist Ortiz de Zarate and Marquet who organised a government grant for Ruszkowski, unfortunately, too late to be of use due to the outbreak of the Second World War. He spoke of his determination to continue painting in the face of extreme poverty and hardship. As my collection expanded I became more involved in his work. I admired this modest, utterly dedicated artist who was unconcerned with personal fame and fortune, unconcerned with self-promotion and unwilling to pander to the whims of the art establishment. He just wanted to paint. Thanks to the support and salary from his wife Jenifer, who was employed at the Montessori school running their administration and his patrons Tom Laughton and Maurice Ash, he was able to devote his life to uninterrupted work, taking time only to look after his children Anna and Christopher while Jenifer's was at work. 

In 1966 a book written by the art critic J.P. Hodin was published entitled Ruszkowski: His life and work. This book dealt with his output up to 1966 but his work had developed in such an exciting manner in the subsequent fifteen years, his colours had become so vibrant that in 1981 I felt that the book should be updated to cover these developments. Hodin had difficulties finding a publisher so I took the bull by the horns and decided to write the book myself. It was published in 1982 by Mechanick Exercises and entitled The Paintings of Ruszkowski. It gave me enormous satisfaction to write and I hoped it would bring Ruszkowski's work to the attention of a wider audience, which unfortunately wasn't the case. During my research for the first book, whilst sitting in Ruszkowski's studio one evening, he disappeared and returned with an old sketchbook. I thought you might be interested in this he said. They are illustrations of my escape from occupied France in 1940. I sat engrossed till the early hours, listening whilst he recalled the adventures that related to each illustration and to his description of life as a penniless refugee on the run from the Nazis. These experiences, together with his illustrations, provided the material for my second book entitled Unofficial War Artist, which I wrote with Ruszkowski's close collaboration. It was published in 1984 again by Mechanick Cxcercises. When the book appeared, Ruszkowski offered to give me the sketchbook as a gift but I refused as I felt it should stay in the family. For this reason there are no illustrations in the catalogue from this period although the book is still available on the Internet. 

During this time my collection of Ruszkowski's paintings grew rapidly. I had acquired several pictures painted in Poland and France before the war and many painted after his arrival in England and during his many painting trips abroad. I never tire of looking at these oils. The colours change in every light. The more I look at them, the more I appreciate the depths they reveal. His vision of nature and the world around him, portrayed on his canvases, fills a room with warmth and vibrancy. I remember the well-known art dealer, Gustav Delbanco, once saying to me, you have succumbed to the Ruszkowsi disease. He was right. However, after buying an impressive nude from the Alpine Gallery a year later, he also admitted succumbing to the same disease. It took pride of place next to a Rubens in his drawing room. Whenever I visited Ruszkowski's studios in London and Lyme Regis, where he stayed during the summer months, I spent much time looking through his canvases. I knew everyone by heart. That is what gave me the idea of undertaking my most ambitious project, the publication of a Catalogue Raisonne. Most catalogues are written after the artist's death and can therefore be inaccurate or incomplete. I was fortunate in having Ruszkowski's comprehensive records and his outstanding memory. It took my mind off the death of my dog, which was a huge blow, and the need to sell my house in Hyde Park, which I had carefully renovated. This was due to financial pressures including the cost of financing the catalogue which I felt was the most important contribution I could make to the world of art, believing then, as I do now, of Ruszkowski's importance as a major 20th century artist. It was a difficult period in my life. Things were going wrong in many directions. The following is an extract of a letter to Ruszkowski that I wrote to him in August 1983 and an extract of his reply a few days later.

8, AlbionClose
London
W2 2AT
30th August 1983

Dear Zdsis, 

I'm sorry I haven't written to you earlier. I'm afraid I've had a whole series of mishaps of one sort or another and have found it extremely difficult to concentrate on writing the book (Unofficial War Artist). 

I prepared the introduction to the story but found it so uninspiring and badly written that I threw it away. Furthermore, I have quite a few financial worries and until I sell my house I won't be in a position to finance the catalogue. I lowered the price and there is considerable Interest in it so hopefully it will sell in September or October. I was deeply depressed by Sue's death, which was sudden and came as a terrible shock. She was my constant companion for 10 years through all the ups and downs of my life. I miss her and think of her all the time. I'm so happy I have your beautiful painting of her hanging in the office which will always be a constant reminder of her companionship (. . .} 

Reply from Ruszkowski dated 3rd September 83 (Extract) 

Dear Michael, 

It was so nice to get your letter. I was often thinking of you and our affairs. Do not worry too much. There are periods in life full of mishaps but after, everything settles satisfactorily. I had several such periods in my life and once I considered seriously in Warsaw to jump from the bridge into the Wistula.

What a pity about Su Sue's death. She was such a sweet companion to you through so many years and the only one female giving you constant companionship. How lucky that I didn't delay too much to paint her. 

I am not an expert on financial affairs, but I think it is wise to sell the house and find something more modest. It was quite exciting to have a spell of the "grand life" but at the cost of so many commitments and big deprivation of freedom of action. I am glad that the idea of the book is still actual in your mind. Who knows, it might be a success or at least quite an exciting adventure. So much of money goes in to dreary ineffective way and even no sign is left over (. . . ) 

Dear Michael don't worry too much, everything will be alright. To cheer you up I send you a small view of Pennyplot (. . .)  

We started work on the catalogue in the spring of 1984 and would meet in his studio at 11 St Thomas' Gardens in Kentish Town, North London regularly 2 to 3 times a week for nearly three years. It became a routine. I would arrive after work at 7 o'clock in the evening. He prepared supper consisting of a large plate of tagliatelli with pesto sauce, smothered with Parmesan cheese, followed by a slab of Roquefort, king of all cheeses in Ruszkowski's opinion, and French bread washed down by a Cypriot red wine. The menu never changed and I never tired of it. The only change was the size of my waistline. It was an enormous amount of work. It entailed going through old catalogues, checking, crosschecking, sizing, dating and organising the photography of works in private collections and museums. Had I realised what was involved before I started, I might have been less enthusiastic. As it turned out, however, I enjoyed every moment we worked together. It gave me more of an insight into his dedication, discipline and single-mindedness. Painting was really all that mattered in his life, all that was important, all that motivated him. It was a constant private struggle for perfection. Towards the end of his life when his eyesight failed and he was unable to paint, he commented on the irony of having acquired so much knowledge and experience during his long life as a painter and the frustration of not being able to take advantage of it. When the catalogue was completed we had managed to trace 706 oils dating from 1920-1986. They were reproduced in colour and traced the development of his unique qualities over sixty-six years.

In the summer of 1986, when work on the catalogue was nearing an end, we went to Paris to visit his old haunts. He showed me where he lived and worked and the places he used to frequent before the war. The famous Cafe Le Dome had been renovated beyond recognition as had La Rotonde. Only Le Select had barely changed from the 1930's. We visited the galleries and I was surprised at the energy and enthusiasm he displayed for a man approaching eighty. We sat till the early hours in the cafes surrounding the Rue de Seine off Boulevard Saint Germain watching the crowds go by and listening to the buskers. He gave me a beautiful watercolour (illustration... ) which he painted on our return as a souvenir of our trip. It depicts the two of us sitting in L'Atlas on the rue du Buci in the early hours of the morning. We even managed to gain access to his old studio in No. 7 rue Daguerre, adjoining a famous open-air market, just by the Denfert Rochereau metro station in the 14th arrondissement. The photographs I took during the trip were included in the Catalogue Raisonne. 

In the year 2000, nine years after Ruszkowski's death, I asked a friend who was living in Paris to find a small studio for me. Prices were low, communications had improved enormously since the opening of the channel tunnel and I was a frequent visitor to Paris. She rang some weeks later, I have located a studio, and you must come to Paris immediately she said. These properties only stay on the market for a few days such is the demand for them. I arrived at the Gare du Nord the next day and was taken to 7 rue Daguerre. I couldn’t believe it. There are thousands of artists ‘studios in Paris and she was unaware of my connection to the property. It was an uncanny coincidence and I purchased it immediately at the full asking price. From my bedroom window Ruszkowski's studio is clearly visible across the courtyard. His paintings cover the walls of my studio.  From 1987 his sight deteriorated dramatically. He was suffering from Macular degeneration, a common incurable condition affecting the elderly. We visited Moorfield's Eye Hospital and several specialists but nothing could be done. He continued to paint out of habit and will power but, as Monet and Degas before him, found it more and more difficult.  

Even reading and writing eventually became impossible. Not accepting defeat, he turned to sculpture and produced seven works that, in spite of his poor eyesight, have been much admired for their movement and composition. They were executed between 1986 and 1987 and are all illustrated in this catalogue. In 1987 Alina Piretti made a short documentary about Ruszkowski's work on the occasion of the publication of the Catalogue Raisonne. Due to budget restrictions, which allowed no time for rehearsal, we were told to speak directly to the camera. It was incredibly difficult without experience and without a script. Ruszkowski came across as natural and interesting. I looked and felt like a nervous wreck, inarticulate and ill at ease. The video was used during the two exhibitions of works from my Ruszkowski Collection at the Middlesborough Art Gallery, the first in 1989 showing oils, the second in 1990 covering works on paper. I'm glad Ruszkowski lived long enough to attend both exhibitions although at the second exhibition he was unable to recognize any of his watercolours. I must say I was impressed at the time by the support and encouragement given by the Polish Ambassador and cultural attaché. They attended on both occasions and even invited us to the ambassador's residence for dinner. They also financed an exhibition of selected works from my collection at the Polish Cultural Institute in London in 1992 and again in 1995 in Leipzig, East Germany. There was a nucleus of very talented Polish artists working in England after the war who are now achieving more prominence, amongst other Henryk Gotlieb, Felix Topolski, Josef Herman and Potworoski. Ruszkowski was particularly complimentary about Gotlieb whom he viewed as a serious, dedicated artist and critic. 

In early 1989 after years of overindulgence I began living with a Japanese woman. I had reached my early forties and had achieved some success and financial security from my business ventures. I was tiring of the intrigues and complications involved in bachelor life. I had now been single for fourteen years and felt the time had come to settle down and take life more seriously. We married in April 1990. Ruszkowski and Jenifer came to our wedding at Marylebone registry office and to the reception held at a small restaurant in Holland Park. Sadly, the marriage proved to be a mistake and a waste of ten years of my life. I left the family home in early 2001. There followed an acrimonious divorce, which must rank as one of the most stressful periods of my life. I did however use the Nineties productively by directing all my energy and passion into expanding my collection by adding some major works from the 16th century to the present day. They now form the permanent collection at the Abbaye de Flaran in Valence sur Baise in the south west of France. I'm truly sorry Ruszkowski is not here to see the result. He always encouraged me to diversify and that's exactly what I did. 

For Ruszkowski 1990 was a difficult year. Almost blind and with no outlet for his creativity he became very frustrated. He drank more than usual and found his existence purposeless. He came alive during my visits, recalling his youth and expressing his views on artists and art but I could see he was depressed. When his vision deteriorated further, Anna and Jenifer suggested he recorded onto tape the story of his family's history. I can't speak Polish and they were never translated into English but I gather they are absolutely fascinating. Then in early 1991 he began working again. In spite of only having peripheral vision he beavered away at several canvases and his mood quickly improved. The output in the final three years of his life reflected his disability and works from this period have rarely been shown in public.  

It was May 1991 when I received a telephone call from Jenifer. Ruszkowski had suffered a stroke and had been taken to the Royal Free hospital in Hampstead. For the first few days he was conscious and able to converse with Hodin who by coincidence was a patient in the adjoining ward. I had just managed to recover monies owing to him by a gallery owner who was having financial difficulties. Although his speech was slurred he told me how relieved he was that the gallery had finally settled its debts. It was the last conversation we had. As the days passed he slipped into unconsciousness. I remember whispering in his ear that I would promote his work for as long as I lived. He groaned but there was no way of telling if he was aware of what I was saying. On the seventh day I met Jenifer and Anna in the hospital corridor. They had kept a vigil by his bedside but he died while they were out of the room. I went to see him for the last time and couldn't control the tears. He was such a fixture in my life it was hard to believe he had gone. It was like the end of an era. The funeral took place at Ealing cemetery and the obituary I wrote appeared in The Times on the 1st June 1991. 

I had always had great respect and deep affection for Jenifer but after his death, as if united in grief, we became even closer and have remained so to this day. In the weeks that followed the funeral we set to work cataloguing all the contents of the studio. We were both aware of his presence there during those weeks. It was almost tangible and strangely reassuring that he seemed with us in spirit. Jenifer was always convinced of Ruszkowski's importance as an artist but after his death she became passionate about it. She sold the upper part of the house and moved down to his studio where she remained well into her nineties, surrounded by his paintings, furniture and personal effects. Sixteen years have elapsed since his death. In those years I have added to my collection. His work occasionally appears in the London auctions and I was fortunate in being able to buy many works from the Tom Laughton collection sold at Christies. Jenifer gave me many watercolours and allowed me to buy oil paintings from the studio.  

My life has also changed dramatically. My parents died in 1997 and in 2002. I left England to live in South Africa with Astrid whom I met in 1999. We married in 2004 and now live in Cape Town. At last I have finally found my soul mate and real happiness. I only regret that we did not meet earlier on in our lives. 

Our emigration however presented a problem; what to do with the collection? I discussed this matter with a close friend, Patrice Rabaute, who lives in Toulouse. It was through his contacts that I was introduced to the Abbaye de Flaran in Valence sur Baise, Gers, south west France. Thanks to his efforts and the wonderful support from the Conseil General and Les Amis de Flaran, the entire collection is under his control. The curator, Michel Hue, is planning to mount an exhibition this year to mark the centenary of Ruszkowsi's birth in 1907. It is planned that all his sculptures and in excess of fifty to sixty oil paintings will be exhibited. Ruszkowski loved France and would have been delighted that an exhibition of his work took place in such an impressive and historic setting. 

This catalogue reflects my love for the man, his vision and the beauty he created. Those who knew him considered it a privilege. He was, at once, my surrogate father, my confidante, my inspiration, my teacher and most importantly my friend. 

I miss his company now as much as the day he died. 

Michael Simonow