by Nathalie Azoulai
A single bed, mismatched cheap sheets, metallic office furniture, old tin lamps and books... Half a mile from the Hudson river in Manhattan stands a little townhouse that used to be both home and studio to great and tiny Louise Bourgeois. When her husband died in 1973, she got rid of the dining table, then the stove, and cocooned herself into spaces within its walls. Little by little this elfin woman seemed to have colonized the house like one of the spiders she sculpted. What is so striking about this place is the carelessness, the untidiness, the implicit feeling you have of the intense inner life of such an artist to whom decoration and home design just meant nothing.