Popescu, Alexandru, “Corneliu Petrescu’s Life and Art,” Tyler Collection of Modern and

Romanian Art: University of Tasmania, 2017 http://tylercollection.omeka.net/items/show/2115

Corneliu Petrescu’s Life and Art

Alexandru Popescu

“The only cardinal point of my life is to produce painting (or transform all in art: stamps, letters, old cloth).”1
Corneliu Petrescu 1924 - 2009

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Introduction

Mysteriously obscure in Romania and only slightly more well-known abroad, Dr Corneliu
Petrescu’s life and art remain a puzzle. Although always interested in art, he spent the first
half of his life working in medicine and only became a full-time painter at the age of 47. He
was self-taught but ambitious and the quiet success of his artistic career owed much to his
wife’s warm and sociable nature. Perhaps of crucial importance was their close friendship
with the Australian-born collector, Geoffrey Tyler (1928-2012), whose support Petrescu
enjoyed during and after the difficult Communist years.

Very little is publicly known about his life, and what information is available, whether online
or in print, is often vague and inaccurate. This essay draws on personal information provided
by Petrescu’s niece, Dr Raluca Papagheorghe, and her discussions with Petrescu’s widow
Mariana; documents from Romanian archives and libraries; and documents belonging to the
Tyler Collection archive. The latter include an unpublished manuscript of Geoffrey Tyler’s
own reflections and writings on his collection. These form the basis for what seems to have
been intended as an introductory book to his collection of art, which for him began and ended
with Corneliu Petrescu.2 They start with the central friendship between artist and collector,
which came about “purely by chance”3 and without which the collection would never have
existed. Correspondence between Petrescu and Tyler, both letters and small painted cards,
also document their friendship over a period of 30 years.

Petrescu’s Life (1924 -1974)

“There is a variety of sand lily called pancratium maritimum or ‘sea daffodil’ which grows and flowers in adverse
conditions. This is how Corneliu Petrescu’s art was born, in a hostile environment. His painting grew and matured in a kind
of inner exile from Communist society and its dramas.”4
Dr Raluca Papagheorghe
Corneliu Petrescu was born on 23rd June 1924, the eldest of three children, in Slanic, Prahova,
shortly after the creation of Greater Romania (1918) and before the arrival of Communism
after the Second World War. His father was a school inspector and his mother was a
housewife. As a child, his artistic inclinations and abilities went unnoticed by his family.

The whole family was Orthodox Christian, but although Petrescu had a strong belief in God,
as an adult he was “cautious to verbalize the existence and nature of his devotion”.5 The
things he saw from his earliest years stayed with him and would later shape him as an artist.
In particular, and like “all Romanian artists” as the collector Geoffrey Tyler pointed out, it
was his early exposure to Byzantine imagery and Orthodox ritual and feasts that made the
most lasting impact: “With icons and church frescoes, and much architecture long dominated
by the Byzantine influence, Byzantium saturates the history of Romanian art.”6 Petrescu was
impressed by what he saw in churches and monasteries, the painted frescoes, mosaics, and
ornamental richness of architecture. The iconographic use of gold and silver stayed with him
throughout his life, marking out the distinctive style of his future art.

However, his parents seem to have mapped out a career for their son with high expectations
of his future in “a serious profession”; seeing his small and frail frame, they decided to
“fortify” him by sending him to a military school.7 He was a quiet man who spoke about
himself very rarely, and when he did so, it was to express dramatic situations which had a
lasting impression on his life. His vivid memories of that school reveal a deep trauma during
his teenage years, when all of a sudden he found himself in a world which did not accept him
and in which he would never fit (he was always the smallest in his class). He was not

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“fortified” by the experience, but on the contrary contracted severe pleural tuberculosis. In
his first year of medical school, his illness reached a critical stage and he was admitted to a
sanatorium where he was expected to die.8

At the end of the Second World War, Petrescu was still a student. The idea that help would
not come from the West and that Romania would lose was inconceivable to the public, and
this made it easier for an ordinary family like Petrescu’s to bear the privations of war,
especially when they had little to lose in the first place.9

Initially, Petrescu studied as a medic (where he met his future wife Mariana Popescu) and
became a doctor, though he never practised as a clinician. Instead he became principal
researcher in the Department of Thyroidology at the Institute of Endocrinology in Bucharest,
a field in which he worked for 27 years.10 In 1968 he completed his doctoral thesis, having
been supervised by the chair of the Romanian Academy, Stefan Milcu, on ‘Studies regarding
the role of endocrine glands in calorigenesis’.11 While preparing his doctoral dissertation
Petrescu was sent up to Maramures, north west Romania, to study people with exophthalmos,
and he spent a lot of time painting them – he may have found the painting more interesting
than the research. “He was fortunate”, wrote Tyler, that “the director of the Research Institute
[Milcu] greatly admired his artistic work and turned a blind eye to the increasing intrusion of
art over medical research.”12 Petrescu’s commitment to painting was made easier by the fact
that he had access to a small studio in central Bucharest, very near to his workplace, which
meant he could incorporate painting into his daily routine. The studio was on Pangratti Street,
next to the studios of his good friends Silvia Radu, Ion Musceleanu and Vasile Gorduz, who
supported and encouraged Petrescu in his art.

As a newly married young man in the aftermath of the Second World War, Petrescu had little
choice in deciding to join the medical profession rather than embarking on the uncertain life
of a painter. Having faithfully followed the career path set out for him by his parents, he was
47 (in 1971) when he decided to give up endocrinology for art. This transition was neither
sudden nor unexpected, and marked a gradual shift in his priorities as his use of time and
energy changed. “The doctor-artist blend slowly but steadily became an artist-doctor blend,
until by the early 1970s his artistic work was full time.”13 Childless and supported by his wife
and her father, as was essential during those difficult decades (1950s and 1960s), Petrescu
had saved enough money to no longer require his medical salary: “As an artist, he was not
dependent for his livelihood on selling his works. This almost certainly gave a freedom to
paint what he wanted and to experiment, that could have been much more difficult in other
circumstances.”14

Petrescu was inspired by a number of contemporary artists. Indeed, the decisive influence for
him in becoming an artist may have come from Ion Tuculescu (1910-62), in whose Cenaclu
(a circle of medic-painters) Petrescu was involved during the 1950s. Both Tuculescu and
Petrescu were medics who turned to art professionally, though the former only achieved
recognition posthumously. The two must have been in touch and known each other
personally.

Although Petrescu was self-taught as an artist, his artistic sense and skill were shaped in the
studios of some of the great artists of Romania. Yet despite his friend’s predominantly
medical background, Tyler was keen to point out that:

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 “Petrescu is no naïve primitive, self-taught and without a strong technique … Quite the
reverse, his knowledge of art history, of individual artists, both old and modern, their lives
and works, is quite encyclopaedic, to an extent that is unusual in light of his lack of academic
art training and his isolation in Romania for his first four decades.” 15

Petrescu absorbed his knowledge from books and postcards, all of which gave him the desire
to travel to see them in person, and which fuelled his later travels. This shaped his career as
an artist:

“Petrescu did not go through the normal channels of the art profession. He did not have
formal training and was not a graduate of the art faculty. He was not, therefore, a member of
the various cliques that such institutions engender and that form part of influence and
patronage, especially in Communist Romania.”16

As a self-made artist, Petrescu was isolated and, outside his circle of close artist friends such
as Radu and Gorduz, was regarded with mixed feelings by fellow artists and the art
establishment.

“His relationship with the Artists’ Union [Union of Fine Artists, ‘Uniunea Artistilor Plastici’,
UAP] was thus complex […] Although he was of necessity a member of the Union, Petrescu
took no part in its affairs, an activist role which often brought studio accommodation, studio
accommodation, exhibition and travel advantages to artists. His work was not overtly
attractive to the Union and politicians; he painted no industrial landscapes or fawning
portraits. Perhaps to some in authority, the spectacle of an outsider from a respected
profession, becoming successful in art, was less than appetising. Petrescu could not expect
to be a natural high flyer in the Communist art establishment.” 17

As a member of the UAP he received, perhaps with some difficulty, his own space to work:

“Although he obtained a studio, it was very small […] For many artists, the studio was more
luxurious than their apartments in terms of space and privacy. Petrescu’s studio, in contrast,
is about 6 feet by 12 feet, with only a wash basin, and a small window high in one wall.” 18

However, this environment in fact suited Petrescu’s small-scale artworks and miniature style
and served him very well.

Petrescu started to exhibit paintings from 1956 and coloured woodcuts from 1963, as the
UAP gradually started to include his work, first his graphic work and then his paintings, in
their collective exhibitions. He took to art with the same respect for the scientific method and
the same self-discipline which used to characterise his way of work and life. “My previous
profession”, he wrote, speaking of his years as a physician, “through its scientifical [sic]
discipline has exerted a most influential impact on my painting. It has brought along the
necessity of a way of work, discipline, vigour and the importance of proportions.”19

When asked what his working days were like, he answered:

“You will be disappointed because I work like clockwork. You see, without discipline you
can’t do anything. I start painting every morning at 8.30. My studio is not in my house. I
have to make a journey of 20 minutes, passing through a very beautiful park, looking at the
birds and trees and the way everything changes through the seasons. I like winter. I usually
get to the studio with sketches which I have made the preceding afternoon. Then I start to
work simultaneously on 2 or 3 pictures. I use special colours made by myself. They are
pastes. I cover the surface first with one colour and then another. I sketch a composition and

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 I wait for the colour to dry before applying the next layer. This is the reason why I work
simultaneously on 2 or 3 paintings, so I don’t waste time. I work on portions and I add gold
and silver in order to achieve unusual effects. I often combine colour with fragments of old
documents, photographs, stamps, pages from old books which I brought from Holland and
France. I use them for their unusual or particular form structure or colour but also because I
prefer the past not the future. Usually I work until 2 or 3 in the afternoon. Then I return
home and have lunch. I have an ample collection of art and music – from my friend
Geoffrey Tyler I have more than 1000 cassettes of classical music – and between 5 and 9 in
the evening I organise work for the next day while I listen to music. As I don’t have an
optimistic nature, I like Mozart and Haydn especially. Most recently I’ve started to
appreciate Mahler. I am obsessed with time. It passes so quickly. As a physician I was
always confronted with death. I believe it is better for me to be an artist because I don’t like
to see suffering or death.”20

He alternated etchings and paintings, sometimes putting them together, but painting remained
his priority. Petrescu had several solo exhibitions in Bucharest (1964, 66, 69, 75) and Holland
(1971, 72), and exhibited widely abroad. He made several ‘study trips’, including one to
Holland in 1971. He also travelled around Italy, where he was influenced and inspired by
artists such as Pierro della Francesca. His first exhibition took place at the Annual Drawing
Exhibition of the Artists’ Union (UAP) in 1963 (before Ceausescu came to power). His career
is well documented until 1976, when he appears in ‘Dictionarul Artistilor Romani
Contemporani’ (‘Dictionary of Contemporary Romanian Artists’, published in 1976). By
1976 he had taken part in exhibitions abroad, in Vienna (1964, 1969), Sofia (1967), Tokyo
(1967), Frankfurt (1968), Tel Aviv (1969), Budapest (1969), Ljubljana (1969), Bremen
(1974), the Romanian Library in New York (1974) and in various cities across Italy and
Spain.

The Dictionary of Contemporary Romanian Artists gives him the following entry:

“Corneliu Petrescu masters the disciplines of drawing and painting like a professional.
Under the tutelage of Paul Klee and Romanian medieval art, he evolves in his own way […]
A careful construction of the image and attention to technical accuracy [are] sustained by a
lyricism which identifies his vision. His use of colour, musically ordered, is mute and
refined, in doses of grey, green and ochre. Picturesque and strange elements from folklore
and Byzantium are intertwined together organically, without ostentation and without great
servitude.”21

However, after this entry in 1976, Petrescu’s career must be pieced together through his
friendship with Geoffrey Tyler.

Friendship with Geoffrey Tyler

“On July 1974 I met you for the first time and since then – our friendship, meetings, trips – become the most
important source of my painting.”22
Corneliu Petrescu
The life-changing friendship with the Australian collector Geoffrey Tyler began in 1974.
Tyler, who worked for the IMF and led several missions to Bucharest, had seen Petrescu’s
work in an exhibition, where he bought a number of paintings, and later asked to meet with
the artist. The two finally met on 4th July in 1974 at the Romanian embassy in Washington, an
auspicious date which was to become a reminder of their friendship throughout their letters.23

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It was in mid-1975, on Tyler’s next visit to Romania, that Petrescu and his wife Mariana
again met and got to know Tyler better as he bought more paintings over the years. Petrescu
welcomed this more personal and direct form of relationship with his buyers, and Tyler too
acknowledged and appreciated this openness.

“Petrescu has always taken a particular interest in knowing his clients and anonymous sales
were never quite as desirable to him as ones to collectors that he came to know. Privately,
from his studio, collectors would have the widest of choices from his whole output, and it
was these buyers whom he valued most.”24

Tyler would help them acquire things that could only be bought in Romania from restricted
Western-style shops catering for elite Party members. US dollars would also buy gold leaf for
Corneliu, ‘Nice ‘n Easy’ hair dye for Mariana, and thousands of cassette tapes of music.
Crucially, Corneliu and Mariana were now, with help from Tyler, able to travel outside the
Soviet Bloc together; usually, a family member would be left behind as a kind of ‘ransom’, an
incentive for the traveller to return. Importantly, and unlike other artists who found success in
the West, Petrescu did not emigrate when he had the chance, but chose to stay in Romania.

In return for Tyler’s generosity, Petrescu introduced him to leading Romanian artists of the
time, enabling him to buy their art. Petrescu was thus instrumental in helping Tyler build up
his collection of Romanian art, and actually provided most of the Romanian icons in the
collection himself.

The Petrescus began to travel around America with Tyler. In 1975 they spent 3 months with
him, and in 1976 they all took a road trip to the Southwest, from Denver to New Mexico and
Arizona. During this trip, Petrescu, now aged 50, began to draw and paint American
landscapes, which he continued to do until his death. His technique and style of composition
were transformed, as was his spiritual life:

“I visited museums and admired the formidable American landscapes. I was impressed by
the colours of the rock strata in Arizona, the desert and gorges in Utah, Nevada and
California. This journey took place in a period in which I was looking for a way of
eliminating details and of organising compositions within abstract configurations. My
paintings had been somehow crowded. But those enormous horizontal spots of colour in
Western landscapes helped me to eliminate details, unimportant things, and to use abstract
elements. That journey thus helped me to progress artistically.” 25

Before this, his paintings had mostly reflected Byzantine art and the folk art of the
Balkans, but after visiting the Pacific coast, beaches and deserts emerge as themes, often
devoid of human beings and vegetation, though never with a sense of emptiness.

“I contemplated the American landscapes with Romanian eyes. That splendid red is
Romanian and is combined with black as in the Romanian rugs. I visited many Indian
reservations and I liked the rugs I saw there, which have geometric forms very similar to
those on the peasants’ rugs in Romania. The American landscape is also full of chromatic
layers. In fact I consider that many painters such as Rauschenberg or Mark Rothko were
consciously or sub-consciously influenced by these layers present in the American
landscape. Even the American flag shows the layers. In fact in some of my artworks the
American flag is almost visible….

… I saw for the first time how Colorado looks in winter – the cold white of some of those
landscapes. The layers of red and warm earth-like nuances enriched by the generous use of

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 golden spots dominate other paintings. Other paintings contain Greek or Cyrillic letters and
fragments of paper which add mysterious messages. The landscapes seem to be oversized
and human beings are absent….

… Today it is impossible for me to even sketch a landscape without remembering the

structure of those American landscapes.”26

The simplicity and luminosity of the desert with its austere elements, such as the cactus (an
abstract representation of a tree) and the absolute demarcation of the horizon, led Petrescu to
the idea of a natural abstraction inherent in the landscape itself. His journeys to America
heightened his use of colour, reducing the range of colours but making them more intense.
His niece Raluca described him as living “enclosed in his art and in colours which deeply
impressed him”.27

These American trips and their influence on Petrescu’s painting led to a greater degree of
abstraction in his work, as Tyler notes:

“They are imaginary views that could not be mistaken for other than what they are, yet at the
same time they are abstractions designed to reflect rather than represent the real world that
Petrescu had seen. Some paintings are definite enough to clearly call to mind the source, for
example some based on scenes in Death Valley. […] If the painting were cut in half, the
bottom would appear to be a completely abstract work; as a totality, the painting vividly
brings to life the colours of the desert.”28

Whilst the American landscape was hugely inspiring for Petrescu and gave him the
opportunity to study famous artworks in person, the trips were also an opportunity for him to
exhibit his work, which he did in Philadelphia, New York, and at the IMF headquarters in
Washington DC.

The 1989 Revolution seems to have had little impact on Petrescu’s career; in any case, he was
never politically active. Following the Revolution he was the first artist to have an exhibition
at the American Library in Bucharest. After 1989, he continued to be promoted and
celebrated as an artist with Western success. He soon made a journey to Vienna where he was
interviewed by the editor of Sinteza magazine for an article entitled ‘Corneliu Petrescu and
the American West’, published in 1991 alongside glossy, full colour reproductions of his
work (including one of a self-portrait collage). His work was exhibited at Dominus, the first
private gallery set up in Bucharest after the Revolution and run by Zamfir Dumitrescu
(another Tyler Collection artist).29 Despite being relatively unknown among the public, both
in Romania and abroad, he was known and respected among his contemporary artists during
his life.

As Tyler’s work took him away from Romania, the friendship increasingly developed through
correspondence. Tyler would send regular cash presents at Christmas and for birthdays, as
well as fragments and old documents Petrescu could use for his collages, a technique he
increasingly preferred as he moved away from the earlier preference for gold leaf.30 Petrescu
sent his friend handwritten cards decorated with small paintings or collages, which were the
beginning of Tyler’s collection of “small Petrescus”. In addition to these, Tyler continued to
buy larger paintings by Petrescu, acquiring around 70 in total, which were mailed to him in
Washington. The idea of forming a collection of Romanian art and icons, what would later
become the Tyler Collection, came from Petrescu himself. At an early stage, Petrescu and
Tyler had realised a collection was forming, and it was with this in mind that Petrescu had

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chosen which artists to introduce to Tyler and which paintings to select and commission on
behalf of his friend.

Petrescu lived modestly, devoting nearly all his time to artistic creation: “it’s a very quiet life,
especially for my wife who is very sociable and would like to have a normal life.” But they
felt no loneliness, “because you always find yourself in the company of your own person.”31

In 1993, Petrescu went to the US to have open heart surgery, which was organised by his
cousin Dr Jenel Petrea who lived in New Haven and had connections to the Yale medical
centre. Tyler and his wife visited him in his convalescence, which was the last time they saw
each other. Corneliu died in 2009. Mariana continued her correspondence with Tyler until his
death in 2012.

Living within the Communist Utopia: Between Fiction and Fraud (see ‘Collection in its
Communist Context’)

“It was years before I fully understood the degree to which deceit, exploitation and outright fraud were inherent in the whole
Stalinist system.”32
Andrei Sakharov
Petrescu’s life and work can only be understood in any depth with reference to the
atmosphere of political oppression that pervaded most of his working career. In this, Geoffrey
Tyler provides us with a unique document: the perceptions of an educated foreigner who was
both an economic expert with first hand contact with the elite of Ceausescu’s apparatchiks (a
select circle about whom most Romanians knew nothing), and an art collector who, over
time, acquired an intimate knowledge and expertise of contemporary Romanian art. In
contrast to accounts of the period such as Lieutenant-General Ion Pacepa’s politically
inflammatory ‘Red Horizons’,33 which described the sensational defection of the former chief
of Ceausescu’s foreign intelligence, Tyler’s writing is measured and factual, both personal
and objective at the same time.

“Most of the middle class lived in very small government-owned apartments, working at
jobs allocated to them by the state. There was food enough to keep one from hunger, but the
best food was exported, and imported food was scarce. […]

Around the city there were simple outdoor markets for farmers, one of the few reminders of
what life was like in western European cities. Here peasants could sell their produce,
although prices appeared to be fairly well controlled. But at some times of the year one
could buy fresh fruits that were not available in the State stores. Some fresh vegetables like
small new potatoes made me wish my hotel room had a kitchen where I could cook them.

Few consumer goods were available to the people. Apartments would have a small
refrigerator but no washing machine. A locally-made small car of French design was
manufactured in Romania but few were allowed for domestic sales. Gasoline was often in
short supply. Public transport was extensive geographically but trams and buses were
packed, relatively infrequent, and uncomfortable. Fares were, however, low. Taxis existed
but they were difficult to come by on the streets.

In short, life in Bucharest was simple, but hard by Western standards.” 34

There are very few documents which can provide such a clear and pertinent description and
analysis of the situation for artists in Ceausescu’s Romania.

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 “Most art lovers in the West have little idea of the way in which a Communist state impacted
on the artistic world. All art was, for practical purposes, controlled to varying degrees by the
State. A person who painted in his spare time, did not exhibit, did not sell and kept his art to
himself, could, of course, ignore the State, and the State would mostly ignore him.
Moreover, while in theory the Constitution gave a degree of personal independence, the
practicality of an artist’s life was, however, quite different. No artist wanting to live a full
life as such could work completely outside the State apparatus. All artists had to live with
this in mind. How the individual artist reacted to the political environment could not help
but affect his work in some way. At the extreme, some artists sold their talent and painted
politically correct works, such as industrial landscapes, peasants at work in the fields,
romantic portraits of political leaders, and the like. Some were lucky and could paint the
same way as they would have in a quite different society, since what they wanted to create
was politically acceptable, for example landscapes and portraits in the traditional style.
Some, whose artistic desires led them to work in a less acceptable style, could exist much
less easily. They would not be jailed but they would find it hard to get exhibitions and the
State would not purchase their works, an important loss of income.” 35

“The economics of selling Romanian art [was] greatly affected by the strict separation of the
east bloc Romanian economy from Western Europe. Some Romanian artists were much
appreciated outside Romania, but artists in general could not go abroad to seek galleries in
which to have their works exhibited. […] Some, however, did become known to western
gallery owners, who were willing to give them exhibitions and sell their works for foreign
exchange. Legally the artists would be expected to bring back the foreign exchange and sell
it to the Romanian Bank for Foreign Trade at the official rate […] As one would expect from
such a rigidly controlled system, many ways were found successfully to circumvent the
intentions of the Romanian rules.”36

Ceausescu’s later years (1987-9) were especially difficult for all Romanians, including
Petrescu, due to draconic austerity measures (e.g. food rationing, energy savings; the standard
of living fell by 19-40%)37 and political repression of dissidence while Ceausescu’s
personality cult was reaching its climax.

“However, although the state was more genial to him [Petrescu] from, say, 1975, as it was to
most other established artists, it should not be thought that life for an artist, or anyone else,
for that matter, in Romania was comfortable. After a brief time in the second half of the
1970s, when the standard of living improved somewhat, in the 1980s the economy
deteriorated sharply and political control became very oppressive. Petrescu was to feel the
oppression relatively soon before the collapse of the Ceausescu regime.” 38

Ceausescu’s utopian economic programme, with all the suffering and sacrifice that came with
it (especially after the 1971 July Theses),39 created an environment without room for hope.
Petrescu had already given up medicine in order to exclusively follow his vocation as a
painter, a life which, for a while, offered a degree of privacy and freedom. This inner freedom
and new life might have been just another utopia in a fictitious world, but for a decade it
allowed him to pursue, in a world devoid of real self-expression, what mattered most to him –
his painting.

However, having talent, whether in art, science or any other field, had become meaningless in
the 1980s, unless this talent was dedicated to the cult of personality. The image of the
Ceausescus as ‘parents of the nation’ was being promoted by the Communist propaganda
alongside a glorified image of the secular State. Whole generations were thus brainwashed
and ‘re-educated’ into adopting a materialistic ideology, a ‘superior’ belief system which had
been programmed to replace religion in the consciousness of ‘new people’. The ‘much

9
beloved couple’ was quasi-deified and presented to the public as having exceptional talents,
virtues and abilities. The almost completely uneducated Elena Ceausescu was often described
as the nation’s most brilliant woman, whose superhuman skills epitomized her unique status
as representative of both the proletarian class and the authoritarian state. In spite of her
catastrophic incompetence she was portrayed in the media as an outstanding intellect, a
brilliance only matched by her ‘genius’ husband, the ‘fountain of wisdom’, the ‘Great Man’,
the ‘providential’ leader who drove the common people’s revolution to ‘loftier peaks of
civilization and progress’.40

Such set-props were prerequisites for carefully staged charades of statecraft, a form of
political circus which fed the infantilized public’s subconscious on wishful magical thinking
about a deified Communist government. In a period when Petrescu was having his solo
exhibitions abroad and winning awards, the semi-literate Elena Ceausescu was fabricating her
own CV: on her orders, respected scientists were instructed to set up national institutes and
research programmes, only for her to appropriate and take credit (and claim authorship) for
their research and inventions. She even became President of the Romanian Academy.

The level of fabrication and fiction, not just concerning Elena’s prowess, was
Munchausenesque. The fiction of Ceausescu’s utopia was a blending of Stalinist
internationalism with his obsession with national ‘sovereignty’. This contradiction between
international debt repayment and national independence led to a self-perpetuating cycle of
fabrication and deception, at the expense of the working force and their families. Harvest
figures were systematically inflated to incredible numbers of tonnes of cereals per hectare –
at a time of crisis when Ceausescu’s megalomania dictated that the country should pay off its
debt to achieve financial sovereignty. Romania was also facing an energy crisis and savings
were made by drastically cutting domestic rations of gas, coal and electricity, endangering the
health of children and the elderly during long sub-zero winters. When the price of oil went up
abruptly, the high levels of inefficiency and energy wastage were exposed; once resources
were exhausted Romania’s debt increased even further, thus pushing debt-reducing measures
to their extreme. Yet the government still claimed it could increase oil and coal production to
pay off this debt. In the shadow of this institutionalised fiction, Petrescu needed to preserve
his own human and artistic integrity.

Petrescu and the Communist State

After Ceausescu’s refusal to invade Czechoslovakia in 1968, the second most crucial foreign
policy move, and one which was again directed against Soviet hegemony, was the opening up
of Romania to the World Bank and the IMF in 1973.41 Ceausescu needed money to invest in
Romania’s own heavy industry and infrastructure so that he could build independence from
the Soviet Union. This policy brought foreigners, including Geoffrey Tyler, to Romania and
was to have great significance for Petrescu’s life and work.

“… in 1973, groups of experts from the international organisations in Washington – the IMF
and the World Bank – began to visit Romania on a regular and frequent basis. Gradually, a
significant number became Petrescu admirers. Sales to these and to diplomatic buyers had
the advantage that they bought directly, avoiding any censorship that sales through the
Union galleries entailed. These buyers were also ones that the authorities had no wish to
mistreat.”42

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Nevertheless, Petrescu was ambitious and still desired more: both his niece and Geoffrey
Tyler made clear that he wanted to travel abroad to exhibit and sell his work, as well as to
visit museums and galleries.43 What set Petrescu apart from other similarly ambitious artists
was the unusual number of solo exhibitions abroad, and, more significantly, his freedom to
travel abroad to those exhibitions. For many researchers today, it is perhaps hard to
understand how Petrescu, no longer an employed medic and not yet an established artist,
could make these trips. Some inevitable difficulties involved in foreign travel included
obtaining passports, visas and currency, communication with foreigners and permission to
travel abroad with family:

“Foreign travel was strictly supervised. Travel to the other east bloc communist countries
was permitted but not very attractive. Travel to the west was extremely difficult. First one
had to have foreign exchange to finance the trip. This could only be obtained by those with
friends or family in the West and part of any foreign exchange sent as gifts was taken by the
State. Furthermore, if the foreign exchange handle could be overcome, all the family could
not travel together. If there were children, the parents could travel but the children had to
remain in Romania. For a married couple without children, only one spouse could travel at a
time to the West. The combination of the foreign exchange problem and the ‘hostage’
system made travel to the West extremely difficult.” 44

How did Petrescu manage to overcome these difficulties? How important were his
friendships with Western endocrinologists he had met abroad in earlier years?45 Was he
helped by the social charms and skills of his supportive wife?46 Tyler’s reflections provide us
with some answers. He makes clear that Petrescu’s “growing circle of foreign admirers”
(which included Tyler) was crucial both for his daily subsistence as an artist in Romania, and
in facilitating and providing the means for Petrescu’s foreign travels.47

“Artists of his age, with a talent that had requests from foreign galleries for exhibitions,
would normally obtain travel visas for them and their wives – many years earlier and
without the long delays that Petrescu experienced. But his growing foreign support in effect
forced the State to provide him the facilities that his talent deserved and that his activities
inside Romania gave no reason to deny. That it took some degree of outside pressure to
encourage or force the State to give him the treatment that was consistently given to his
peers, is a sad commentary on the regime.”48

Petrescu’s frequent and often long trips to the West would undoubtedly have generated
questions from the Securitate. We do not know what they expected of Petrescu from these
trips. After 1989, it became clear that he had been reported on. As his niece describes: “There
was a very cultivated young man who often used to spend time in Corneliu’s studio. After the
revolution he called Corneliu and Mariana to thank them for their hospitality and to say that
they would not hear from him again.”49 However, Tyler explicitly rejected the suggestion of
any ‘compromise’ made by Petrescu.

“In theory and practice, the State Security Organisation [the Securitate, Ceausescu’s secret
police] took an extreme interest in the interaction between foreigners and the population and
basically discouraged it. […] Petrescu’s contacts with westerners was, of course, known
very well to the Security authorities, but they tolerated it to the extent that they eventually
permitted him to accept official invitations for cultural visits to West Germany, United
Kingdom and the United States.”50

“Some mindless functionary at a Petrescu exhibition in Bucharest noted the old papers and
writing in some of his collages. As a result an official investigation by the Union was begun

11
 to determine if Petrescu was destroying important old documents that should be part of the
country’s patrimony. Many of his old papers were confiscated and an ugly enquiry begun by
a high official of the Union, one whom Petrescu had long considered a friend as a well as a
colleague. The unpleasant – and ridiculous – episode was resolved by Ceausescu’s trial and
execution. Petrescu never recovered his confiscated property but his relations with the
Communists had ended.”51

“… to an outsider, it would seem a difficult choice to Petrescu to satisfy his own artistic
desires, those of potential buyers and, additionally, the state. Compromise might seem an
almost inevitable result. The degree of compromise was negligible. Petrescu painted only
what satisfied him. There were no officially inspired works. The small scale of most of his
paintings (an 18” x 15” work would be on his large rather than small size) tended to direct
his market to private collectors wanting works for their houses, in contrast to large
canvasses requiring museum walls. […] Moreover, in the earlier stage of his career, he
found landscapes very attractive to paint and the state would find no problem with these.” 52

In fact, the State began to see advantages in allowing Petrescu to exhibit and make friends
abroad. Petrescu’s friendship with Tyler and his success in the West was proudly publicised
by the Communist propaganda. The Romanian Bulletin, published in English for a foreign
audience, made a point of showing off Petrescu’s American successes.53

“… the State itself had a dilemma. To improve its domestic popularity and to try to
separate Romanian communism from that of the Soviet Union, which was strongly
disliked by Romanians, the State strongly supported old Romanian art, which was
effectively religious art. Petrescu’s Byzantine paintings, based on Church frescoes and
icons therefore had a ‘legitimacy’ that made it possible for the state to accept not only for
domestic consumption but also in the context of exhibitions abroad. […] Thus, by chance
and through his art, Petrescu the artist may have become of some positive political value
to the State.”54

The intrusion of the State into Petrescu’s life and art, and the artist’s relationship with the
State, remained nuanced. He tried not to be influenced by politics, though it was hard not to
be. He never became a State artist like Sabin Balasa (1932-2008), for example, who was
regularly commissioned to paint official portraits for the Ceausescus. Petrescu niece spoke of
“his disagreement with the Communist regime” which “manifested itself in his abstaining
from art which illustrated ‘Communist achievements’. Byzantine icons and gates and
windows with characteristics of icons were his way of showing his disapproval of the
times.”55 But this was never explicitly articulated in any form of recognisable dissidence.

“Through virtually all Petrescu’s adult life, he lived in a country with a Communist regime,
at times one of the most repressive. Certainly not a Communist himself, quite the reverse, he
was in a State that was inimical to many of the things about which he felt most strongly and
which influenced his art. Although he tried to live and work in a way that was influenced as
little as possible by politics, his life and work could not but be affected by the Communist
regime….

… The State neither knew, nor in a sense cared, what an artist painted in private. It was only
when paintings were submitted for exhibitions that they took an interest. For exhibitions,
Petrescu was careful to exclude works that he judged the Union would find difficult. He
could do this without compromising the quality of an exhibition, although it did mean that
sometimes he would have to exclude works that to him were particularly attractive.” 56

12
As one of the first Western outsiders to experience first-hand Ceausescu’s totalitarian system
of power in Romania, Tyler was able to put the political reality in perspective. Combined
with his deep familiarity with Petrescu’s life and work, he is perhaps best qualified to offer a
closing assessment of the artist’s situation in the Communist State:

“The impact of the state on Petrescu’s art is thus a complex subject. Neither inside nor
outside Romania did he ever act against the State that he disliked, nor did he defect. The
State, through its minor functionaries in the Union, denied for much of the time the
treatment they gave to his colleagues of equal or lesser talent. Eventually these functionaries
had to take account of his international reputation and perhaps of his many foreign admirers.
That they did so is no credit to them. On balance, Petrescu’s work is probably in total little
different than it would otherwise have been, although it caused him many heartaches that he
should not have had to suffer. In this, he shared the misfortune of most Romanians. It is to
his moral credit that Petrescu maintained his principles and developed his art through the
most difficult and slightly easier times in his country and consistently produced the work
that his artistic conscience demanded.”57

Western Influences on Petrescu’s Art

During the 1990s, Tyler had begun reflecting on his time in Romania and his 25-year
friendship. Petrescu’s apparently ambivalent relationship with the Communist State, neither
wholly with nor against the authorities, has parallels in his art and its interplay between
eastern and western influences. For the western part, Tyler had, to some extent, nurtured and
cultivated Petrescu’s artistic development through their discussions, travels and
correspondence (including his regular presents of exhibition catalogues, books and music).

Thus, we should not overlook the role Tyler himself had in shaping what influenced Petrescu.
As a mentor figure, Tyler fostered Petrescu’s exposure to Western art, and as a purchaser and
collector of his art, became one of the main influences on his friend. Tyler identified
Byzantium as the first and main influence of Petrescu’s art (see a fuller account of this
below). Moreover, Tyler himself sent Petrescu reference books on Byzantine art58
encouraging this primary spiritual root, but he also identified three other non-Byzantine
influences:

“The second major influence was the painters of post-Byzantium in northern Italy after the
Renaissance began. The themes used by these painters, their incorporation of gold leaf into
their works, and above the sunshine that saturates their paintings are clearly evident in
Petrescu’s work, particularly in the landscapes of his mid-career, say in 1960 to 1975. The
‘Memories of a Museum’ series of the early 70s, are the epitome of this influence with their
representation of the artist’s impression of Italian painters. Many of his landscapes of the
period, while clearly Romanian in content, have the flavour of the Italian artists. Even in the
American landscapes there is sometimes the light, the warmth and the sunshine of the Italian
schools.

The third influence Paul Klee is acknowledged by Petrescu as important and this is
especially evident in works in the period 1960-1975. In many of his non-landscape paintings
of this period, the main design is divided into many small interior patterns. The effect is
amplified by the Klee-like technique of incising the paint surface with mainly abstract
designs but perhaps more than the physical similarities to Klee’s work and techniques, there
is in so many of Petrescu’s paintings, the same intellectual playfulness that is so important in
the Swiss artist. Petrescu’s scale is also much the same as Klee. Although both painted at
times large paintings, the more common size is relatively small. They are paintings for

13
 rooms rather than large museum walls; they are intimate rather than public works.
Importance of detail is crucial for both artists.

Finally, there are artists who utilised collage as a technique. Mention is made in the section
[in Tyler MSS, 1994] on collage of the influence of Picasso and Braque in their joint cubist
period. However, in most respects it is not easy to see the direct influence on Petrescu by
these two. Equally important with these two masters, are two major users of collage,
Schwitters and Cornell. But as with the former two, the influence is not one of direct
imitation but rather because of Petrescu’s love of their collage technique and the intellectual
content of their works. Of the two, no doubt Schwitters was the earlier influence, since
examples of Cornell in European museums at the time when Petrescu was first able to visit
them, were few. In the second half of the 1970s when visiting America, Cornell works
became much more accessible and fascinated Petrescu. However, it must be emphasised that
the influence of these two masters of collage on Petrescu was indirect and less pervasive than
that of artists mentioned earlier in this section.” 59

The work of Petrescu brings together both Western and Eastern traditions in a striking and
original synthesis. In doing so, his art overcomes the sterile and artificial demarcation
between East and West, transcending the very concept of the Iron Curtain.

“Corneliu Petrescu and his painting” – just an essay?

While Tyler’s unpublished reflections represent a Western view of Petrescu in the aftermath
of the collapse of Communism in 1989, we find another, very different, perspective in an
enigmatic book by Anton Olivier from the 1980s, Corneliu Petrescu: sa peinture (‘Corneliu
Petrescu and his painting’).60 This small, carefully considered essay seems to be written with
a self-censored awareness of the possible consequences any writing could have on the artist,
and is unusual and remarkable, especially given the context of Ceausescu’s institutionalised
cult of personality. Still more surprising is the fact that it was published in French by a minor
Parisian printing press, and features Petrescu’s self-portrait on the cover.61 We can only guess
about the book’s author Anton Olivier: was this a little known art critic or a pseudonym? Was
he commissioned by one of Petrescu’s collectors or foreign admirers, or by the Securitate in
an attempt to promote Romania’s image abroad? Or was Olivier simply a friend of Petrescu?
He appears to have known Petrescu personally, describing him as a reserved, self-effacing
and often silent man, with a pensive look and natural affability who on closer acquaintance
revealed an intensely imaginative, anxious, passionate nature.

In any case, this small publication seems to be written by a connoisseur of art, whose
educated, critical eye is comfortable in the world of modernism and contemporary art,
contextualising Petrescu’s work within the history of 20th century art. Olivier’s foreword
begins with two epigraphs: the first from Auguste Rodin, ‘an art which is alive does not
reproduce the past, it continues it’, and the second from André Malraux’s book on Picasso,
La Tête d’Obsidienne. Olivier uses this last quote to draw a parallel between Petrescu and
Picasso’s constructivist use of detritus and his messy application of paint and cartoon-like
imagery, which is key to the artist’s poubellisme (literally, rubbish-ism, a term Picasso coined
himself to describe the minimalist aspects of ‘aesthetic nothingness’).62 These two quotes
introduce Petrescu’s subtle and paradoxical art, which combines a lively quasi-Byzantine
iconicity with a playful, though sometimes melancholic, attitude.

A handwritten date and the biographical notes place the book around the Orwellian year of
1984, in a period described by Olivier as “aussi excessive et aussi chaotique”. He laments

14
the decadence of contemporary art, and sees it evolving to a new form of expression and
visual syntax which rediscovers what was alive in the past and establishes a bridge of
continuity. This is, he argues, exactly what Petrescu does in his rediscovery of Byzantine
tradition, in which he manages to find a style which corresponds to his vision and profound
spirituality without imitating previous masters.

Olivier describes Petrescu as a poet who expresses himself with colours and a magic
sensitivity, remaining faithful to the translation of his emotions. Petrescu does not look for a
sculptural, fragmented volume in his collages of ‘debris’ but a decorative, flattening use of
colour, avoiding the risk of becoming cold, monotonous and sterile. His predilection for
autumn and winter landscapes, with their muted luxuriance, sombre skies and fragmentation
of tones, reflects a gradual discovery of the iconicity of those seasons: bare trees visually
revealing their essence, white snow purifying the landscape.

Although Olivier accepts the importance of Byzantine influences for Petrescu, he considers
his art to have become gradually and intentionally “desacralized” and converted into a
“laïcisme moderne”, thus divorced from its original ritual use. Petrescu “does not reject
Christian spirituality, but finds church dogmatism cumbersome.”63

“He inherited from Byzantine painting its hieratism, luxuriance and colour … but in a
heretical spirit devoid of the sacred”.64 [‘dans un esprit hérésiarque et dépourvu du sacré’]

“Petrescu’s iconostasis is not that of the Byzantine world … [his] secular iconostasis is
ghostly, faceless, bathed in opulent intense colours, deployed enchantingly. The figures
resemble a show, a narrative, staged representation.” 65

For Olivier, Petrescu’s paintings reach levels of abstraction which mean they are no longer
recognisably Byzantine in style: he uses the colours, but uncanonically; there are no
hagiographic or biblical references, no liturgical sacraments. Petrescu’s “Byzantine period” is
seen as merely a transitional stage in his artistic development, albeit one of the happiest and
most joyful periods and one which defined his vocation as a painter. His artistic world is also
characterized as one of chimerical dreaming and lyrical imagery: his “dreams are those of a
poet who idealises his visionary sensibility”.66

Although Petrescu was influenced by Brancusi and his reminiscences of ‘l’art ancestral’,67 his
primary influence remained Byzantine art. Yet, in Olivier’s view, whereas Kandinsky and
other Russian artists retain the memory of Christian apocalyptic fervour and its transfiguring
power, Petrescu (under the influence of Brancusi) desacralizes the colours, forms,
iconographic evocations and hieroglyphic signs.68 Petrescu’s hieroglyph-like ‘alphabet’ does
not come from Egyptian hieroglyphs or Chinese pictograms, with all their sacredness, or
Miro’s ‘anti-paintings’, but are inserted into his compositions as “emotional references” for
“poetic effect”.69 For Olivier, in his secularizing aestheticist analysis, Petrescu’s relationship
to religion and Byzantine culture is entirely devoid of mystical experiences of the sacred.70

Olivier’s link with Brancusi’s primitive art, though brief, is relevant. However, the idea that
Brancusi influenced the ‘secularization’ of Petrescu’s Byzantine heritage needs further
examination. Brancusi was fascinated with Romanian folk mythology, especially with the
‘Maiastra’ (‘Enchanted Bird’), a mystical symbol he associated and infused with light in the
‘Maiastra’ sculptures created throughout his life. These were, according to Eric Shanes, “a
statement of man’s relationship to the eternal world, as well as to myth and magic, and surely
the supreme declaration by Brancusi of human transcendence by a higher, ideal power.”71 It

15
cannot have been purely by chance that Petrescu also produced a painting in 1995 entitled
(according to his niece) ‘Maiastra’. This painting depicts a gilded bird trapped in a cage and
was used to illustrate the catalogue of his first and last retrospective exhibition in 2004:

“There is an artwork, I believe it was entitled ‘Maiastra’, which depicts a beautifully

coloured bird in a golden cage. This is in fact his soul as an artist captive in a society
that did not allow [its] affirmation.”72

Petrescu seems to have produced a series of similar ‘Caged Bird’ paintings, the earliest of
which dates from 1982 and now belongs to the Tyler Collection.73 This may explain why in
2004 the 1995 painting is called ‘Colivie’ (‘Cage’) – which perhaps retains the pre-
Communist self-censored title – while the family remembers its title differently as ‘Maiastra’.
These paintings are symbolic self-portraits of a quiet, introspective artist whose faith was
deeply rooted in a mystical imagery which was out of place both before 1989, in a
dogmatically atheist police State, and after 1989, in an increasingly capitalist, materialist
society.

Geoffrey Tyler’s reflections on Petrescu – a post-1989 view

Geoffrey Tyler’s 1994 reflections on Petrescu’s art are unhindered by the possibility of
harming him (as may have been the case with Olivier) – because the threat of the Securitate
with its aggressively anti-religious programme had gone. An example of this fundamental
difference between the two critics can be seen in Tyler’s approach to the hieroglyph-like
‘alphabet’ mentioned above. While Olivier and Tyler agree that this ‘code’ has no deeper
meaning than its decorative qualities, Olivier does not even consider the most obvious
identification of such symbols with Church Slavonic letters. In this omission he seems to go
along with the subtle rhetoric of Romanian Communism, which nationalistically sought to
distance itself from Soviet Culture, with all its implicit Russianness. Tyler, on the other hand,
acknowledges the religious root of Petrescu’s symbolism, even while rejecting the idea of any
deeper spiritual meaning in those hieroglyphs:

“In virtually all of his paintings since around 1980, Petrescu has incorporated signs that
appear to be Cyrillic letters of the old Church Slavonic alphabet. In fact they are not actual
letters but hieroglyphics, having a similarity to them. They are normally scratched into the
paint or light painted over the body of the main work. The signs have no particular meaning
and in any case Petrescu neither reads nor speak Church Slavonic or its modern descendent.
His use of these symbols no doubt reflects his love of religious art and there is certainly a
similarity to his description on icons. However, too much should not be read into this
practice. The signs have no literal meaning and once should regard them as decorative
additions to his works, pleasing the artist and providing another unique element to his
output.”74

The spiritual nature of Petrescu’s work and its root in Byzantine tradition cannot be
overlooked. Tyler refers repeatedly to the early exposure of artists to Byzantine art from their
childhood and the way this shaped all Romanian Orthodox culture, both “the worlds of the
peasants as well as the intelligentsia”:

“… the churches and monasteries and the art in them are accessible to most Romanians, and
the museums are storehouses of Orthodox art. … Artists’ studios and homes reflect the
influence of Orthodox religious art, even if the artists themselves may not be particularly
religious themselves. The incidence of icons on the walls is high. Generally, they are not
important in the museum sense, although sometimes they are, often being damaged and not

16
 especially refined examples, but they are testimony to the widespread attachment that
Romanian artists have to traditional Byzantine painting. Indeed, it is often the case that in
artists’ homes the walls contain icons rather than works of the artists themselves. …” 75

In Petrescu’s case, this Byzantine heritage is, according to Tyler, represented in five ways:

“First, a significant number of paintings contain identifiable icon elements and religious
themes. Second, there is a pervasive use of gold leaf. Third, a flatness of perspective that is
the rule of icons and, for example, of early Italian paintings that evolved from the Byzantine
school in north Italy. Fourth, spatial arrangements that mirror those in icons; both the
ubiquitous borders and the separation of two or more parts of a painting from one another by
boundaries of paint or background. Finally, almost all his paintings since around 1980
incorporate what look like old church Slavonic letters” 76

Tyler sees a Byzantine and religious influence even in Petrescu’s non-religious works.

“In some purely secular paintings, not frequently but not especially uncommonly, Petrescu
has carried over the spatial arrangement of his icon-based paintings, thus one finds some
diptychs and triptychs consisting not of religious themes but instead scenes of Romanian
peasants dancing. There is also a series of paintings of the early 19790s which are based on
early Italian paintings consisting of two or three scenes separated into their own ‘frames’; he
calls them ‘Memories of a Museum’. […]

Petrescu also carried this idea of paintings within a painting into the number of works
entitled ‘Pages form an Album’, consisting of an abstract representation of a photograph
album with four ‘photos’ forming the design. In some cases, the panels are a collage based
on an actual old photo, in others, the panels are so abstract as to give only a very general
suggestion of what the ‘photos’ may be. Although not religiously based, the spatial pattern
resembles that of a four-panelled icon.”77

For Tyler, the Byzantine elements of Petrescu’s art are essential and not without their
religious meaning.

“… Petrescu painted a few works in which the religious character is completely clear and
the dominant feature. These are not an artist’s mere reactions to religious paintings of others
– icons or frescoes – but works in which the painter is creating deeply religious paintings in
just the same way as did the artist of earlier times.” 78

Over his years spent visiting Romania and cultivating friendships with Romanian artists,
Tyler acquired the eye of a connoisseur in the art of that complex period. His perceptive and
astute presentation of Petrescu’s art goes beyond Olivier’s aestheticizing approach, and will
serve as a benchmark for any future research into the artist.

Neo-Byzantine Renaissance?

Olivier’s essay does not explore Petrescu’s Byzantine inheritance in all its depth, and by
secularizing it, reduces it to one influence among others. Rather, in our view, and as Tyler
suggests, Petrescu’s subtle relationship with Byzantium involves an experiential element of
applied theology and metaphysics.

A very brief look at the history of this complex Byzantine heritage will highlight its deep
roots in Romanian and proto-Romanian culture. After the splitting of the Roman Empire into
East and West in 330, and the overthrow of the last Western emperor under pressure from

17
nomadic invaders in 476, the Eastern Roman Empire became the dominant Christian culture
until the fall of Constantinople in 1453. A new type of Byzantine art and culture emerged
after 1453, an exile ‘movement’ which the Romanian historian Nicolae Iorga called ‘Byzance
après Byzance’. This development resulted from the immigration of Byzantine culture to
Wallachia and Moldavia (now Romania); it was a form of resistance against Ottoman
expansion, and ensured the survival and development of Byzantine art for the next four
centuries. Byzantium was the political model which inspired the foundation of Wallachia and
Moldavia, which would eventually come together as the two principalities of Romania under
one domnitor,79 Alexander Ioan Cuza (1820-73), whose secularising reforms constrained the
spiritual and cultural Neo-Byzantine ‘movement’. After the First World War, Greater
Romania became a national state through the unification of the two principalities with
Transylvania under King Ferdinand I, and Orthodoxy became the state religion. With the
arrival of the Soviet Red Army at the end of the Second World War, a violently anti-Christian
regime emerged, against which a generation of Christian artists grew up. Petrescu’s art, like
that of Horia Bernea and Ion Nicodim,80 represents a silent, implicit form of spiritual
resistance, which we might call a ‘Neo-Byzantine Renaissance’, continuing the spirit of
Iorga’s ‘Byzance après Byzance’.

Petrescu’s relationship with Christianity was complex: he was born and brought up in a
Christian environment until the radical changes of 1945, when Romania became a People’s
Republic. He continued to live in a society where atheism was imposed until the 1989
Revolution, not as an explicit Christian but still deeply engaged with his faith. I am
enormously grateful to Petrescu’s niece for providing the following description of Petrescu’s
faith:

“Although Corneliu Petrescu had a strong belief in God, he almost never referred to faith
and divinity. I would even say that, out of a timidity to explain or discuss his relationship
with divinity, he was cautious to verbalize the existence and nature of his devotion. His piety
was to be found in his deepest self, like a core, like a Yin enveloped and hidden (‘cocooned’)
from scrutinizing eyes, which could have been defiled through misunderstanding.

There are many and clear proofs of the existence of [his] profound faith; [his] religiously
inspired painting speaks for itself. […]

Corneliu Petrescu was not a practicing Christian. He did not fast (although Mariana used to
fast and fed him the same ascetic meals); he did not go to church unless obliged (e.g. our
wedding and the baptism of Mihai [our son]). He did not attend liturgy and had no spiritual
father. It is true that he did not work on Sundays and great religious feasts, but this was only
because Mariana stopped him from working [on these days].” 81

Church feasts were inescapably part of his ordinary life.82 However, his Christian heritage
was reinvigorated in an unexpected way during his 1976 trip to Mexico, Arizona and Utah
and the revelation of the American desert as a naturally formed icon within the landscape.
Petrescu began to develop his artistic vision in the landscape paintings and collages that
followed his American travels:

“…what interested Petrescu most and has been reflected in his subsequent paintings was the
desert part of the journeys. He used other regions as sources, but it was the desert that remained
most in his memory. It is easy to see why this was so. The most obvious impact was the pure
grandeur of the southwest. The great National Parks – the Grand Canyon, Zion, Bryce Canyon,
Death Valley – cannot help but affect all who visit them, let alone a sensitive artist. […] But
these physical facts were fundamentally not the important things. It was the characteristics of

18
 what he saw that influenced him. Beyond the grandeur, the countryside was particularly
amenable to established elements of Petrescu’s work. The colours, above all, the reds, browns,
yellows and black, are those that have always stimulated the artist. They are included in the
typical palette of his beloved Byzantine icons. […] In the mile after mile of largely uninhabited
desert, he also found the essence of nature, untouched by humans, that lies at the centre of many
of his Romanian landscapes. To all of this was added the intense blue skies and the extreme
clarity that is innate to the region.”83

For Petrescu, the simplicity and luminosity of the desert revealed a natural reduction of the
three-dimensional world to a sandscape defined by height and width: the depth of the painting
now emerged from Petrescu’s own contemplation. He discovered a unique way of
understanding Byzantine iconography as embedded within natural reality prior to painting,
rather than a method arising from canonical rules of iconography. This revelation and new
way of contemplating light and landscape resuscitated an interest in his Byzantine heritage,
allowing him to transform that tradition into his own modern, iconographic vision of art.

In his mixed, unusual way, Petrescu painted a number of traditional iconographic subjects,
such as the ‘Nativity’, ‘Crucifixion’, and ‘Entombment of Christ’, (and even a nativity scene
which is simply entitled ‘Icon’),84 but in several paintings he also alludes to the traditions
themselves, e.g. ‘Byzantine Composition’, ‘Church Doors’, ‘Byzantine Door’. Petrescu
began to use iconographic principles of simplification, colour and composition even in
paintings which did not refer directly to Byzantine themes. We can see this most clearly in his
landscapes. It was on his trips to the American West that Petrescu discovered the Arizona
desert depicted here and with it, the inherent iconicity of that landscape.

While these landscapes do not include people, they might still be understood as ‘icons’. As
the Romanian art critic Ion Frunzetti puts it, comparing Petrescu’s paintings to the “quiet
world” of icons while highlighting his free use of colour:

“Its outcome resembles old, glossy tempera spread over a mastic [i.e. primed] layer [on]
dried and [peeling] wood; we seem to watch an icon polished by believers’ lips repeatedly
murmuring their devotional prayers.”85

Although the term ‘icon’ (from the Greek ‘eikon’, meaning image, face) specifically refers to
paintings of holy people, saints and Christ, Petrescu’s ‘icons’ are like icons in which the
people have been taken away, leaving behind the transfigured material world. In traditional
depictions of Christ’s transfiguration, his ‘metamorphosis’ changes the people and the
material world around him, which is represented by a new, ‘uncreated’, light. Petrescu’s
scenery suggests something of this uncreated light, drawing the viewer as a witness to the
material world in its transfigured glory. For instance, in one of his ‘Arizona Landscapes’ we
see a golden ochre halo-like cloud in the sky, following the contours of the empty hills and
suggesting an iconicity of the landscape and accentuating a sense of awe in front of the
majestic view. He does this without being an obedient servant of the tradition.86

We can draw a comparison with Horia Bernea’s landscapes.87 Bernea’s ‘Hills’, those of a self-
professed Christian artist, are painted in cycles with an insistence which presupposes a
curiosity and a determination to decipher the sacred within objects. The various hypostases of
the hill, in different moments of the day and seasons yet always from the same point of view,
seem to reflect the artist’s search for the essence of his chosen ‘objects’. Bernea’s hills
become familiar places, and by conferring significance to them beyond historical space and
time, he discovers, like Petrescu, an inherent iconicity in that landscape. Both Petrescu and

19
Bernea are concerned with an inner journey towards original meaning and visual language,
transcending concrete topography and pointing to an inner geography of personal revelation.

Petrescu’s ‘icons’, while not strictly iconographic according to canons, are depictions steeped
in a form of liturgical ritual. The commemorative way he gives titles to his artworks (e.g.
‘Byzantine Memory’,88 ‘Page from a Family Album’ resembles the Orthodox priest’s naming
and remembering in the liturgy of the preparation: the priest symbolically names each
fragment of the Eucharistic bread, remembering apostles, Church Fathers, and the whole of
humankind since Adam and Eve. Petrescu’s hieratic scenes and perceptions of the
contemplated world are each given titles as if memories to be immortalised and shared with
his friends, not for posterity however (like the priest’s prayers), but here and now. His art
recalls a time before the schisms of the Church, a time of unity which now takes the form of
artistic synthesis, an assimilated pictorial interpretation of the contemporary world.

“One of the examples of the entombment series has been mentioned above: the collage.
Another collage, of the crucifixion, is even more impressive. Christ himself is painted with
an expressiveness that reflects the agony of the event. It is a sparse painting by Petrescu’s
standards, the figure of Christ dominating and the two Maria’s at the foot of the cross small
and abstract. The collage consists of old papers, the grey colour of which dominates rather
than what is written or printed on them. It is a haunting painting from 1986.” 89

The collage painting of the Entombment of Christ, with its use of fragments of old and
precious documents (from Tyler himself, from Petrescu’s trips to book stalls in Paris), brings
a liturgical dimension to the religious subject by its ritual use of precious material shared with
viewers.90 Petrescu was certainly interested in aspects of the liturgy and liturgical objects, and
used these to develop his artistic skills and aims:

“Notice should be given also to another, smaller series of religious still lifes that Petrescu
painted in the 1970s. These were representations of liturgical silver – chalices and the like,
including a specifically Romanian object, the chivot. The latter is a silver and silver gilt
model of the church to which it belonged, and was used as sanctuaries for precious objects
of the church, for example relics of saints and martyrs. These ‘chivot’ paintings mostly
contain a chivot, a chalice and a censer, displayed on a table top, the whole composition
surrounded by a brown background. These works were painted when metallic leaf became
attractive to Petrescu, first the bronze leaf available in Romania, then gold and silver leaf he
obtained from abroad. In addition to their religious significance, they are studies in the use
of metallic leaf of different textures and colours. From this period onwards, the use of
metallic leaf, mainly gold, became a consistent characteristic of the artist’s works.” 91

The collage of the Entombment of Christ resembles the Orthodox antimis (from Latin
antimensium and linked to the modern Greek antiminsion, meaning ‘in place of table’), a
consecrated piece of cloth, usually square or rectangular, which is laid out on the altar before
preparation of the Eucharist. The antimis is not simply a church object but a personal item
belonging to the priest, without which the liturgy cannot be celebrated. In the centre of the
antimis is, embroidered or printed, an image of the entombment of Christ, and in its corners
are icons of the four evangelists. Sewn into it are the relics of martyrs, a tradition deriving
from the time when Christians were persecuted and celebrated the Eucharist on tombs of
martyrs; the antimis can thus function as a portable altar. Similarly, the elements of collage
which make up Petrescu’s ‘Entombment of Christ’ hint at a relic-like quality, preserving
precious memories. Collage was a physical way of preserving objects that were important to
both him and Tyler, especially stamps, symbols of their correspondence: “I received with
much interest (and pleasure!) the old stamps (especially the old Australian ones); you were so

20
kind to send me them. (They stimulate my work!)”92 Consciously or unconsciously, his art
preserves and keeps alive the Eucharistic spirit of hieratic art: “The only cardinal point of my
life is to produce painting (or transform all in art: stamps, letters, old cloth, etc.)”93

Post Scriptum
A visionary and humble artist: unanswered questions

Although Petrescu remains virtually unknown today, both his ascetic life and aesthetic vision
invite and reward further research.

A great deal remains unsaid about Corneliu Petrescu: personal questions about his
motivation, his experiences and influences as an artist, and his relationship with the
Communist state. How did Petrescu resume life in Ceausescu’s Romania after his trips to the
West? He enjoyed enormous freedom and privileges compared to ordinary citizens, even
before he met Geoffrey Tyler: he could write letters to Western Europe and America and,
crucially, receive replies and gifts, at a time when all correspondence was monitored and
intercepted. Of how much interest was he to the apparatchiks of the Police State? Only the
Securitate archives can tell.

These ‘archives’ are loosely termed collections of documents and files, often about the
mundane and everyday details of the lives of millions of citizens. In theory there is public
access to files today, but this is still convoluted and patchy, at times almost Kafkaesque…
Political sensitivities mean files have often been ‘lost’, ‘damaged’ or heavily redacted. If we
could find Petrescu’s file, and there is no reason to suppose it contains anything incriminating
or classified, we might be able to discover more about his world and the life he lived as an
artist. Any correspondence that remains from him and his friends could also bring to light
new perspectives on his life.

References & Endnotes

21
1
Card from Corneliu Petrescu to Geoffrey Tyler, dated 22 September, 1990. ‘Desert’, (catalogued incorrectly as 1991: the
text of the letter confirms the 1990 date).
2
Geoffrey Tyler, ‘Essays on Petrescu’, 1994 (unpublished manuscript = Tyler MSS, 1994).
3
The opening line of Tyler’s handwritten ‘Foreword’, Tyler MSS, 1994.
4
Email from Dr Raluca Papagheorghe, sent 21 September 2016.
5
Email from Raluca Papagheorghe, sent 21 December 2016.
6
Tyler MSS, 1994, § ‘Byzantine Influences of Petrescu’s Art’.
7
The inscription on his doctoral dissertation supports the suggestion that his career was decided in an effort to please his
parents: “to my parents – in the hope that my efforts – on all plans – will bring you lots of joy and a bit of … [sic]
quietness” (9 October 1967).
8
He was admitted to the Zerlendi sanatorium on Viilor Street, next to the largest cemetery in Bucharest. This was during the
early 1950s, when tuberculostatics were not available. In a rare moment of confession to his niece, Petrescu described the
atmosphere of despair from doctors and other patients. Email from Raluca Papagheorghe, sent 21 September 2016.
9
After rigged elections and under pressure from the Red Army, King Michael I was forced to abdicate on 31st December
1947 and later fled the country.
10
Petrescu’s cousin, Dr Jenel Petrea, recalls the advice he gave the young Corneliu before his interview for the research
position: “when Milcu asks you, you need to say nothing in the world is more interesting than endocrinology, and that you
are convinced that the whole human pathology starts from glands, irrespective of what you believe.” Interview with Raluca
Papagheorghe, Bucharest, 1 July 2016.
11
Corneliu Petrescu, Cercetator Principal, ‘Cercetari Privind Rolul Glandelor Endocrine in Calorigeneza’, Teza de Doctorat,
Coducator Stiiintific Acad Prof. St. M. Milcu, Academia Republicii Socialiste Romania, Institutul de Endocrinologie,
Director: Acad. St. M. Milcu, Bucharest, 1967. Milcu had studeisd at the Military Medical Faculty of Medicine in Bucharest
and had had an affinity for medical students of a military background which may explain how Petrescu found such a
distinguished doctoral supervisor. I am grateful to Prof. Dr. Constantin Dimoftache-Zeletin for drawing my attention to this
detail.
12
Tyler MSS, 1994, § ‘Petrescu’s Work and Romanian Politics’.
13
Ibid.
14
Ibid.
15
Ibid.
16
Ibid.
17
Ibid.
18
Ibid.
19
C. Petrescu, quoted in Galerie Jacques Sieverding catalogue (1980?).
20
Quoted in Valerie Kreutzer ‘Corneliu Petrescu si Vestul American’, Sinteza, no. 87 -1991, p.83. English translations from
the Romanian text in Sinteza are by Alexandru Popescu and Iona Ramsay.
21
Octavian Barbosa, Dictionarul Artistilor Romani Contemporani (Meridiane: Bucharest, 1976), p.389. English translation
from the Romanian text by Alexandru Popescu and Iona Ramsay.
22
Card from Corneliu Petrescu to Geoffrey Tyler, dated 27 July 2006. ‘Byzantine Composition’.
23
Geoffrey Tyler wrote to Corneliu and Mariana Petrescu that “July 4, 1974 was one of the turning points in all our lives.”
(Letter of 5 July 2008) Shortly before his death, Tyler wrote again that: “July 4 is much more than a public holiday, it is the
anniversary of the beginning of the long lasting friendship between our two families.” (Letter of 4 July 2012)
24
Tyler MSS, 1994, § ‘Petrescu’s Work and Romanian Politics’.
25
Kreutzer, op. cit., p.82
26
Ibid.
27
Interview with Raluca Papagheorghe, Bucharest, 1 July 2016.
28
Tyler MSS, 1994, § ‘Landscapes in Petrescu’s Art’, §§ ‘The American Landscapes’.
29
In a card to Tyler dated 8 March 1992 (‘Byzantine’), Petrescu refers to Zamfir Dumitrescu, son-in-law of Ion Pacea (also a
Tyler Collection artist), putting him in the context of the enthusiastic materialism that capitalism brought after 1989 in
Romania: “Pacea – as always very materialist (now – his son in law has the biggest art gallery – “Dominus” in
Bucharest…)”.
30
“Subsequent to the early 1980s, Petrescu’s use of gold leaf lessened to some extent. Not so much that it [is] completely
absent from any but a small number of works, but the amount of leaf used in an ‘average’ painting became less. The
incidence of paintings such as those mentioned above where the use of gold is pervasive, became uncommon. Almost
certainly this lessened use was partly a reaction to the enthusiastic utilisation of a new medium when gold leaf became
available to him. Perhaps more important was that Petrescu was finding increasing pleasure and satisfaction in the old paper,
letters and documents which he began to use for collage. Thus gold leaf and paper collage became equal element sin his
technique, and few works other than those painted for a clientele, that preferred his earlier style, omit the new materials.”
Tyler MSS, 1994, § ‘Byzantine elements of Petrescu’s Art’.
31
Kreutzer, op. cit., p.83.
32
Quoted in Julia Kenny, ‘Stalin’s Cult of Personality: Its Origins and Progression’,
https://theyorkhistorian.com/2015/09/18/stalins-cult-of-personality-its-origins-and-progression/.
33
Ion Mihai Pacepa, Red Horizons: The True Story of Nicolae and Elena Ceausescus’ Crimes, Lifestyle, and Corruption
(Regnery Gateway: Washington D.C., 1987).
34
Tyler MSS, 1994, § ‘Ceausescu’s Romania’.
35
Ibid., § ‘Petrescu’s Work and Romanian Politics’.
36
Ibid., § ‘Working environment for Romanian artists under the communists’ (a subsection which “needs to go elsewhere in
the document”).
37
IMF figures quoted in Vlad Georgescu, The Romanians: A History (Ohio State University Press, 1991), p.260.
38
Tyler MSS, 1994, § ‘Petrescu’s Work and Romanian Politics’.
39
These theses were issued after Ceausescu’s return from China and North Korea in 1971, and marked the beginning of the
most pervasive stage of his cult of personality.
40
Edward Behr, ‘Ceausescu: Behind the Myth’, BBC documentary, 1991: https://www.youtube.com/watch?
v=cvlfRKBIGok.
41
Romania was the first Communist country to open up relations with the IMF and World Bank.
42
Tyler MSS, 1994, § ‘Petrescu’s Work and Romanian Politics’.
43
“CP admired Romanian painters unreservedly, but he wanted [his own work] to be known and to sell abroad. He was
sincerely aggrieved by the fact that none of them had a market abroad.” Email from Raluca Papagheorghe, sent 21
September 2016.
44
Tyler explains how overcoming these difficulties and being able to travel helped him artistically and personally: “The
benefit to Petrescu was that he was able to travel and have exhibitions abroad on a relatively regular basis and gain foreign
exchange, the possession of which made life inside Romania enormously much bearable. Access to foreign exchange was,
however, of lesser importance than the opportunity to travel abroad. The latter had an enormous artistic value to him since it
gave him the chance [to] see new things, for example landscapes, and to visit museum[s] and add to his art experience.
There was another great advantage. In 1976, for the first time, the State allowed Petrescu’s wife, Mariana, to go with him.
Thereafter, she went on all of his foreign travels. Obtaining visas remained a tremendous bureaucratic chore, but the
presence of his wife was to both of them an advantage, the more since she is a very practical person which probably has
made the stress of travel easier for the artist. …The state willingness to allow foreign trips for Petrescu and his wife
stimulated him in various ways. At the most mundane it gave him access to supplies which otherwise would be difficult to
obtain. Most notably old documents for collages. More important, however, were the artistic stimuli. The trips to the United
States were instrumental in causing the long and continuing series of Western landscapes. Direct contact with the works of
artists using collage, especially Schwitters and Cornell, undoubtedly had an impact on Petrescu’s ventures into this area.
Important also for both him and his wife, the opportunity to live away from the daily problems of life in Communist
Romania was valuable. Moreover, they were able to visit many old friends from Romania living in Europe and the United
States and had a ready welcome from these and many others who had become their friends through the artist’s work. It is, in
fact, a credit to their friendliness, that wherever they are they often have more invitations than they can accept.” Tyler MSS,
1994, § ‘Petrescu’s Work and Romanian Politics’.
45
For example, Petrescu kept up a friendship with Professor Dr Ariens Kappers, “sculptor and art lover” (and also a Dutch
endocrinologist?) He also had other foreign supporters, including the gallery owner Jacques Sieverding (again in Holland)
and ‘Mrs Khoury’ (in Bremen, where he exhibited in 1974, 1977, 1980 and 1983). In the catalogue from Petrescu’s 2004
retrospective, organised by the UAP, he mentions four people who consistently supported him throughout his career: two
Dutch collectors, Kappers and Sieverding, and two American ones, Geoffrey Tyler and Dr Ion Petrea (his American cousin).
See ‘Corneliu Petrescu – Expozitie Retrospectiva: Pictura-Colaj’ (Galeria Simeza: Bucharest, September 2004).
46
Raluca Papagheorghe considered Mariana’s sociability essential to Petrescu’s success as an artist in the West.
47
“His exhibitions in Poland, West Germany and the United States were very successful. His domestic exhibitions and the
presence of some of his works in Union sales exhibitions gave him exposure to foreigners visiting or working in Romania.
Gradually he gained a significant number of non-Romanians who became significant admirers and purchasers of his art. He
had a small piece of luck in that his studio happened to be in a section of Bucharest where embassies are concentrated. A
number of diplomats began to buy directly from his studio and increased visibility gradually expanded the number of
persons buying directly from him. […] More importantly, his paintings were attractive to enough private persons to provide
a flow of sales both from his studio and to a lesser extent from Union galleries.” Tyler MSS, 1994, § ‘Relations of GT with
Corneliu and Mariana Petrescu’, §§ ‘My relations with the Petrescus’.
48
Tyler MSS, 1994, § ‘Petrescu’s Work and Romanian Politics’.
49
Interview with Raluca Papagheorghe, Bucharest,1 st July 2016.
50
Tyler MSS, 1994, § ‘Petrescu’s Work and Romanian Politics’.
51
Ibid.
52
Ibid.
53
“The One Man Show of the Romanian painter Corneliu Petrescu is part of the vast cultural programme that the Romanian
Library is conducting. Americans of Romanian origin were pleased … to learn more about the art of painting in
contemporary Romanian. Since all Romanians living outside the borders of Romania are more sensitive to what is
vernacular in its modern art, my impressions will focus on these aspects. ….” (Romanian Bulletin, Vol. VIII, no. 1, Jan
1979, p.8). “His art which enjoys particular recognition in the US is styled in the Byzantine and Romanian Middle Age
Tradition.” (Romanian Bulletin, Vol. VII, no. 11, Nov 1978, p.12).
54
“Petrescu by chance or design found a means to incorporate religious elements in his work in a way that was politically
acceptable. A painting based clearly and solely on the idea of an icon might cause no problem when titled ‘Byzantine
Composition’. Another series of paintings based on Flemish altar pieces were called ‘Memories of a Museum’. While
opposed to religion, the state was not particularly anxious to start unnecessary conflicts, at least at that time.” Tyler MSS,
1994, § ‘Petrescu’s Work and Romanian Politics’.
55
Email from Raluca Papagheorghe, sent 21 September 2016.
56
Tyler MSS, 1994, § ‘Petrescu’s Work and Romanian Politics’.
57
Ibid.
58
This book arrived with Petrescu as part of Tyler’s eclectic selection of gifts: “I would like to inform you that besides your
letters – we received (by airmail) – owing to your extremely kindness – three books (Max Ernst, Bette Davis and Byzantine
style) – All are very interesting and we thank you very much!” (card dated 4 March 1991, ‘Abstract Landscape’).
59
Tyler MSS, 1994, § ‘Outside Influences on Petrescu’.
60
Anton Olivier, Corneliu Petrescu: sa peinture (‘imprimé par SNI Damien: 58, rue Castagnary, 75015 Paris’, undated
[1984?]), 72 pages, including 11 coloured reproductions (pp.48-70) and ‘Notes Biographiques’ (pp.71-72).
61
Only the Ceausescus had the privilege of being allowed their portraits on any front cover.
62
Olivier, op. cit., p.7.
63
Ibid., p.26.
64
Ibid., pp. 15-16.
65
Ibid., p.39.
66
Ibid., p.41.
67
Ibid., p.26.
68
Ibid., p.25.
69
Ibid., p.42.
70
‘La désacralisation s’effectue graduellement après de longues élaborations’ (‘Desacralization takes place gradually after
long elaborations’), ibid., p.38.
71
Eric Shanes, Constantin Brancusi (Vol 12, Modern Masters Series, Abeville Press, New York, 1989), p.31.
72
Email from Raluca Papagheorghe, sent 21 December 2016.
73
The title is given as ‘Bird Cage’, but the painting is almost identical to the 1995 ‘Maiastra’ chosen to illustrate the 2004
catalogue cover.
74
Tyler MSS, 1994, § ‘Byzantine Elements of Petrescu’s Art’, §§ ‘Slavonic Script’.
75
Ibid., § ‘Byzantine Elements of Petrescu’s Art’.
76
Ibid.
77
Ibid., § ‘Byzantine Elements of Petrescu’s Art’, §§ ‘Spatial Arrangements’.
78
Ibid., §§ ‘Religious Themes’.
79
The word ‘domnitor’, meaning king or chief, comes from the latin dominus, an imperial title for the emperor in the
Roman traditions. Both the Byzantine and the earlier Roman empire were represented, laying the foundation for a culture in
the two principalities that was (and still is) predominantly Latin in ethnic origin and Orthodox in faith.
80
Horia Bernea (1938 – 2000) and Ion Nicodim (1932 – 2007), both self-professed Christian artists of international
reputation, particularly well-known in France, where they both lived and worked.
81
Email from Raluca Papagheorghe, sent 21 December 2016.
82
For example, in his cards to Tyler, he would always mention their Easter celebrations: “They forecast for the weekend
nicer weather with sunshine and warm. We hope so because on the 27 and 28 we have Easter – this week we all are busy
with preparations, painting of eggs, cooking some roast lamb with vegetables, and cakes (maybe we shall buy them!)” (Card
dated 21 April, 1997).
83
Tyler MSS, 1994, § ‘Landscapes in Petrescu’s Art’, §§ ‘The American Landscapes’.
84
A birthday card dated 2 June 1993. ‘Icon’ is Geoffrey Tyler’s title; the card was untitled by Petrescu.
85
Ion Frunzetti, in Catalogue from June 1974 Exhibition, Romanian Library, New York.
86
The seventh ecumenical council (787 CE) stated “The painter’s liberty extends only to the technical aspects: but all the
layout, disposition and composition depend on the rulings of the holy Fathers.” (p.36, ‘Light from the East: Understanding
the World of Icons’, unpublished manuscript by Craig Larkin, quoting from Dionysius of Fourna, The Painter’s Manual).
87
Horia Bernea was also a friend of the Petrescus, and his death is mentioned in a letter to Tyler (7 March 2005).
88
Illustrated in Olivier, op. cit., p.51.
89
Tyler MSS, 1994, § ‘Byzantine Elements of Petrescu’s Art’, §§ ‘Religious Themes’.
90
Petrescu’s collage is a fascinating mixture between the sacred and the secular: “One interesting collage of 1980 is a four
panelled painting with two of the panels filled with gold leaf icon themes, and the other two with collages formed from parts
of an old map from central Paris.” Tyler MSS, 1994, § ‘Byzantine Elements of Petrescu’s Art’, §§ ‘Spatial Arrangements’.
91
Tyler MSS, 1994, § ‘Still Lifes’.
92
Card from Corneliu Petrescu to Geoffrey Tyler, dated 31 July 1998.
93
Card from Corneliu Petrescu to Geoffrey Tyler, dated 22 September, 1990, Desert’ (see note 1).