The gallery was nearly empty at four, that suspended hour when natural light softens and the guards shift their weight from foot to foot. I'd come to see the retrospective a second time, not because I missed anything the first visit, but because I wanted to test something: whether a painting changes when you know you're looking for the last time this month.
It does. The large canvas I'd barely glanced at last week—all ochre and sienna, a landscape that seemed unremarkable—suddenly held me for twenty minutes. This time I noticed how the artist had built up texture in the middle distance but kept the foreground almost flat, reversing the usual depth cues. The sky wasn't painted; it was scraped back to reveal earlier layers, threads of cerulean and violet ghost-thin beneath the surface.
Why hadn't I seen this before?