The front porch yawns over the square, the roof leans into space. There is no cornice, no entablature, no architrave…

The tragedy of this painting lies not only in its subject, but the way in which Illia Repin has rendered his friend.

The egg and dart molding is found in the shadow of the cornice, seen in reflected light, like the underside of a mushroom, delicate and protected.

If architecture is not the same as building, then what is it?

As we look closely at Whistler’s painting, Little Rose’s arms lie in an immeasurable field of black.

Dawn, dusk, and moonlight. These are the moments of Homer’s paintings. Light continues to illuminate, as all else fades, as if in a dream.

I found myself in a small room with two paintings, one by Agnes Martin, the other by Robert Ryman, facing each other. The silence was deafening.

Ingres is reputed to have said that he could paint a nude with only mud, provided he had a full palette for the background.

When you are within a few feet of this painting, you can no longer see where it begins or ends, and are simply gazing into its limitlessness.