I often find myself unable to fall asleep at nights, and it is during these frustrating hours that my mind naturally wanders, with no outer stimulation to keep it preoccupied, into avenues and alleys that a reasonable person would rather avoid but into which I am inescapably dragged.
On these most recent occasions we have frequented an arcade graced with tapestries from civilizations past and present, undoubtedly acquired through tremendous effort and expense, for the utter rarity and value of the most antique of these canvases speaks to the determination of their curator.
And upon these great kaleidoscopes, hanging on the cold concrete walls of this brief walkway, we can see the history of man as it has been recorded for us. The artists first duty is to his patron, and so it is that from one Diary to the next we see the Master exalted in his natural glory, assuming his role as God on Earth.
However, it is not enough to paint the Lord himself. The subject must be placed, for reference, and the artist inserts him into his Lord’s sphere, so that all can see and know to which they belong. And this is the natural order.
And although we return repeatedly with hopes of finding a new exhibit, we are disappointed to find the same history — but even more so at how quickly we walk through it all.