Egon Schiele:
Caller (Rufer), 1913
Gouache, watercolor, and black crayon
45.7 × 31.1 cm
Auctioned at Christie’s, New York, in 2007 for USD 3,064,000
(Kallir d1440)

It was rare for Schiele to title a drawing, and rarer still for the title to feel so directly tied to the figure’s inner state. Rufer—Caller—is one of those works in which Schiele seems to catch a person at the very edge of speech, the body leaning forward with a kind of urgent clarity. The figure stands sharply outlined against the pale ground, the limbs taut, the head slightly raised as if the call is already forming in the throat. A small, contained tension runs through the crossed arms, giving the figure a compact, inward‑turned energy; it feels less like someone calling outward and more like someone gathering strength before speaking. Schiele’s line in 1913 had a particular electricity: thin, precise, and almost vibrating with intention. Here it gives the body a wiry tension, a sense that the figure is both anchored and about to break into motion.

The colours are handled with the restraint typical of this moment in his development. Gouache and watercolor settle in thin, translucent layers, allowing the paper to breathe through the figure. The blacks of the crayon define the contours with a firmness that feels almost sculptural. The deep blue‑green garment adds a quiet weight to the figure, its angular folds echoing the sharpness of the face and reinforcing the sense of concentrated intensity. Schiele’s palette in 1913 often hovered between pallor and intensity, and this sheet is no exception: the muted tones heighten the psychological charge, making the gesture feel even more focused.

In the lower left corner, there is an inscription—not by Schiele, but in another hand. It reads: “Diesen Schiele zu freundschaftl. Erinnerung Carl Reininghaus”—“This Schiele [artwork] in friendly remembrance [of] Carl Reininghaus.” The dedication adds a quiet layer of intimacy to the sheet, suggesting that this drawing once passed between friends, or at least between two people who shared a deep belief in the new art emerging in Vienna. Reininghaus was one of the most important early supporters of modernism, a collector whose enthusiasm for Schiele and Klimt went beyond acquisition. Knowing it once passed through his hands lends the sheet a gentle intimacy, as if this tightly held gesture carried a personal resonance within Schiele’s circle.

The figure itself, with its raised arm and forward‑leaning posture, belongs unmistakably to Schiele’s 1913 vocabulary of bodies stretched toward expression. This was the year in which he refined his exploration of gesture as a form of psychological revelation. The body becomes a conduit for emotion, the line a record of tension and release. In Rufer, the gesture is pared down to its essence: a call, a reaching outward, a moment of communication suspended in time. The face, with its sharply drawn cheekbones and slightly parted lips, holds that familiar mix of vulnerability and resolve that marks so many of his 1913 figures. It is as if the figure is caught in the instant before sound breaks the silence.

Schiele’s drawings from this period often carry a heightened sensitivity to the fragility of the human form, and this sheet is no exception. The thin washes of colour allow the figure to feel almost weightless, while the black crayon anchors it with decisive force. The plain, unmodulated background intensifies the isolation of the gesture, leaving the viewer alone with the urgency of the call and the stark immediacy of Schiele’s line. The contrast between delicacy and firmness is one of the hallmarks of his 1913 work, and here it creates a tension that feels both physical and emotional.

Seen today, Caller feels like a small but potent testament to Schiele’s ability to compress emotion into the simplest of gestures. The dedication to Reininghaus adds a human warmth to the sheet, reminding us that these works circulated not only in exhibitions and collections but also within networks of friendship, loyalty, and shared artistic belief. In its economy of means and its psychological intensity, this drawing stands as a vivid example of Schiele’s gift for capturing the moment when the inner life of a figure becomes visible—when a call, whether spoken or silent, seems to rise directly from the page.