When Egon Schiele died in 1918 he was 28 years old. Artistically, spiritually, physically, he was in the prime of his life and yet there remains the overriding feeling that in may ways his oeuvre was complete. Interpreted cynically this argument might by construed to mean that he died at the right moment, at a time when his art seemed to have developed from angst-ridden urgency to a state of gently sensitivity, even sentimentality, and in circumstance that are totally in keeping with the sense of personal tragedy so strong throughout his life.
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