I am in Venice (in Spain) for three days with C. He stays outside in the hills but I am keen to visit the galleries. The pictures I look at are gorgeous: sparkling mosaics of religious scenes dripping with blood and set against refined architectural detail. C will be mad to have missed this stuff.
I am upset when I somehow realise that I am only looking at reproductions in artbooks and that I do not actually have the time to see the work in the flesh.
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