Soon after the December, 1989, Revolution, at the young people’s exhibitions, two or three names of mature artists would also be present. One was Geta’s. People used to call her just that: Geta. She was one of ours. She was one of mine… Now, after so many years, I feel like calling her Mrs. Brătescu. And only then Geta. She has remained one of ours, but has somehow gotten above all.
When Lia and I moved into Geta’s former studio, we inherited some shelves, some Thonet‑style chairs, those love‑lorn ones, with the rounded seatbacks, and a large, long table in the middle of the studio… That table shows in all the dozens of photos from all the talks, presentations, and meetings we have set up around it for the past twenty years.
I said yes on the spot, without thinking it over. How could I miss the chance of writing a few lines about Geta? Only then did I realize how formidable the whole undertaking was. I bumped against a wall and remained speechless (I delayed writing those lines by using childish get‑offs and timing it out as long as I could, I didn’t answer phone calls or e‑mails, until I drove Alina Ledeanu to despair). But how was I supposed to write about the life, studio, and writing of someone who draws and writes so well? On and on and for such a long time…