Richard Cooper

Richard Cooper carried a tiny paintbox in his coat pocket everywhere he walked. He’d stop on any hillside, ruin wall or tavern step to dash off a scrap of sky, a crumbling arch, the way light turns wet stone silver. That pocket habit explains why museums still hunt for his loose, glowing watercolors today. On your next rainy afternoon, hunt down his “Mountainous landscape with ruined building”—it’s the size of a postcard but feels like standing on that very hill, ink barely dry on the page.