The Paris Virgin of the Rocks, by consensus Vinci’s’s first, born before its London twin, looms in the nearby Louvre. Ticketed, we’ll do our best tomorrow (I think tomorrow, for our days fold one in one) to grace the gawping crowds with Aussie connoisseurship.
“That sfumato, see, confounds all power to classify it, save the edges melt in edgeless air, a feat of alchemy not painting.”
“And note the uterine amenity of the cave, so shaped to hold mere nullity, until, hey presto, a Redeemer spills into flesh.”
Or similar. My backpack bloats with like bon mots & apercus, or so my vanity counts them. Mostly second-hand of course. Yours, less bombast-filled, is a wordy hold-all just the same, for has not Clive James proved we are, as a people,…