Lefevre, L.M.

Lefevre’s prints feel like a stranger’s diary left open on a café table. The lines are crisp enough to cut, the scenes so ordinary they startle—an old boot, a half-peeled orange, a cat that looks just past the artist’s shoulder. You’ll find these in the corner drawer of any Paris print shop that survived Haussmann’s boulevards. Tap any page to zoom in; the exacting cross-hatching will still look wet, like ink that hasn’t quite dried.