Way, way high up on the disconcertingly long list of Things I Know Nothing About, you will find the entry: “Art.” I am an unregenerate Philistine. If I had been the Nazi general in charge of looting Russia, all those priceless art treasures would have been safe. I would have been the guy shouting, “Forget the Chagalls and the Falconets, grab those doll-within-a-doll-within-a-doll things.”
This is an embarrassing admission for me. I’ve tried to remedy it. I’ve gone to museums in a dozen cities in four countries. I took a course in art appreciation in college, and I watch Sister Wendy with the kind of fervent single-mindedness with which other men ogle Britney Spears. But it all goes right over my head.
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