Last time I visited the National Gallery, about fifteen years ago, I had not yet read (because it had not yet been written) T.J. Clark's landmark book on Poussin (The Sight of Death) nor had I read the dull but exemplary books about Poussin by Anthony Blunt. In those bad old days, in effect, I knew nothing about Poussin and did not (incredible as it seems to confess) take any special notice of the one great Poussin at the National Gallery, though it has been just about continuously on view for anyone with eyes to see since 1963. Today I did my hearty best to make up for past neglect.
Watteau proved more difficult to photograph than Boucher. All I succeeded in carrying away legibly from Watteau was the garland of white roses falling forgotten down some steps in the foreground, and the immediate prelude to a kiss in the background.
