(All this is pretty much just a ploy to get myself and others to look at Caravaggio’s work again. I am so devious.)
So, I had a couple minutes to kill before a meeting at the library tonight. I wandered back towards the magazines, but was intercepted by the art books. I looked through the slim pickings, deciding which 20-lb tome I should check out when I ran across a book of Caravaggio’s paintings. It’s a beautiful book, marred only by the inclusion of words. It has a poor reproduction of this;
Sorry, huge, I know. but really, it’s so wonderful. A friend has those annoying praying hands up in his apartment, the official photograph of Minnesota or some foolish thing. I keep threatening to get an 8 foot replica of this and put it up. If you’re going to do religious iconography, do it right.
Anyway, the point of this story is that I was at the desk checking out, and I felt obligated to mention that Caravaggio is my official dead boyfriend. He’s obviously the type I am attracted to – Trouble, with a capital T – but with the added benefit of being dead so I don’t have to worry about getting dragged into something.
This might be the reason people stay just a little back from me. Maybe.
Unrelatedly, I’m reading “The Goldfinch.” Of course it took ten years to write. Example from pg. 160: “He was a planet without an atmosphere.”
That counts for 6 months, right there.