At the (workshop of) della Robbia Nativity, I’m brought up short by ignorance. It’s a wonderful object, the restricted colour range and the white of the main figures make it so much easier to read. I’m struck by the everyday acuity of the artist, and how that makes it real. Like, on that hunter’s le...
Sat in front of Piero della Francesca's Resurrection, in a beautiful, spare space, I’m struck by the absolute directness of the gaze. He is looking straight at you, with no sign of having suffered except a minor piercing.
“Oh, that? A flesh wound.”
Then there is the casual drape of his left...
This post is number 50 in a series.
Hard to believe. I could never have planned it this way. Later today we start a long weekend of serious R&R, but today I post my last post in this series (except that I may well continue; it’s fun). After all the blood, the sweat, the toil, the tears, to end...
This post is number 49 in a series.
I can’t think why he started. I was sitting quietly, waiting for him, and he threw something at my head. I watched it sail by. A biscuit! So I Hoovered it up. That happened a couple more times, then his aim improved. I happened to have my mouth open, and in i...
This post is number 48 in a series.
The country came to town yesterday as we set out, bucket in hand, dog on leash, to gather elderflowers. Italians watched, but said nothing. With The Squeeze despatched to procure citric acid, and sugar, water and lemons, the house was soon as redolent as a flo...
