The second or third thoughts I had upon waking. It was affected much by the reading I had been doing the night before.

I am increasingly less initmedated by my coming exam. I am not sure why. I have barely studied for it, or rather I am about half way there, and yet I cant seem to care.

So I finished reading Merezkhovsky’s The Romance of Leonardo Da Vinci as well. I wrote this review for it.

“I remember so very often walking through the Vatican museums and stopping at the lonely little picture Leonardo Da Vinci made of St Jerome. It was always strange to stop and look at it. It is in the whole of the museum the only work that is incomplete to such a degree. One would wonder why it is there. Surely, this person who we all know as a renaissance master most have better works that we could display.

Or maybe not. I guess I never bothered to look into the life Of Da Vinci, but if we Take Merezkovsky word on it, he was not a prolific person at all. His mastery does show in the little ChiaroScuro work I mentioned, but the book brought me to an understanding that being a master of something might not mean the prolific output showed by various other Italian artists of history.

The book illustrates rather well not only the person in question, but the rather interesting and turbulent times he lived in.

A book that can contextualize a painting is certainly rather good.”

It seemed like a review written to up for the numbers of reviews one writes. I will strive to do a better job next time. This is a promise. But in the mean time I finished reading Anais Nin’s House of Incest. For some reason I read it in Italian, before realizing that the original language it was written in was English. Damn. I have had for many years the dual language edition, which I picked up used for next to nothing.

Today’s Photo refers to the Picture mentioned in the review of The Romance of Leonardo Da Vinci

“Chiacchiere, chiacchiericci, frasi lasciate a mezzo, astrazioni, campanelli cinesi suonati con bastonicini ricoperti di ovatta, falsi fiori d’arancio dipinti su porcellana. I soffocati, segreti chiacchiericci di donne dal tenero corpo. Gli uomini che ha abbracciato, a le donne, si confondono nella risonanza della mia memoria. Suono dentro suono, scena dentro scena, donna dentro donna – come un acido che riveli una scrittura invisibile. Una donna dentro l’altra, alla fine, in una processione che si spinge lontano, che frantuma la mia mente in quarti di tono che nessun direttore d’orchestra potrà mai più ricomporre.”

Anais Nin

La Casa Dell’Incesto