Ben Solowey

Ben Solowey’s studio smelled like turpentine and stale coffee. He painted people he knew—neighbors, friends, his wife’s sister—then framed them in sharp outlines like prints you’d hang over a desk. Every afternoon he set up a single lamp, tilted just so, to flatten faces into shadows and light. Look up his 1937 portrait of Stephen Haggard: the actor’s ears stick out like satellite dishes, catching all the quiet radio static of the 1930s.