Sami Samara

Sami Samara is five. He works in acrylic on canvas, at the oak table in the kitchen, in the good light of the late afternoon. His method is direct: he decides what a painting is before he sits down, and he does not change his mind. Nothing here has been revised, painted over, or explained. Asked what a piece means, he has been known to look at the questioner with real concern.

He is unrepresented by any gallery, unmoved by the discourse, and entirely unavailable after seven o’clock.

Five paintings exist. There will not be more of them at these prices — his rates are expected to move sharply once he turns six, and his agent, who is also his father, has already been difficult on the subject. Collectors who move early are the ones who get to look clever later.