The public parts of my notebook.
They had Canaletto’s painting of Piazza San Marco, which my mum would have liked, but which leaves me rather cold. All those precise people.
They had some Caravaggio.
A wonderful picture of a lute player whose sardonic, superior expression recalls ‘60s era Bob Dylan.
And The Denial of St Peter, with the woman being discreetly persuasive.
They had a whole room of Rembrandt. My favourite was Herman Doomer. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners. The way they shone with fluid and looked so human. The wispiness of his beard.
I found Danae by Gentileschi, who I had not heard of. A facsimile of an outstretched hand. A relentlessly well painted tucked in sheet.