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Daniel Pinchbeck on Peter Pinchbeck

WHEN MY FATHER DIED, in September 2000, he left behind hundreds of paintings and sculptures in his rent-controlled loft on Greene Street. The work ranges from severe wooden constructions made in the 1960s to woozy zigzags crafted out of plaster, from icon-size images to rolled-up canvases of vast dimensions. My father’s art went ignored, essentially unseen during his lifetime. There were no career retrospectives, no solo museum shows, no fanfare. His artist friends were his only audience.

In the aftermath of his life, I find myself compelled to fight his battle for him: I think that my father’s art is late-breaking news from the last century. The work is probing and profound, abject and obstinate, luminous and eerie, eccentric yet true to its own internal logic. It revels in metaphysical doubt; it radiates the belief of its maker.

Is it simply too painful for me to relinquish his belief, to

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