
The Last Supper (Bouveret)
The light in the darkened room seems to be coming off Christ himself, painted when religious art had largely gone out of fashion.

The light in the darkened room seems to be coming off Christ himself, painted when religious art had largely gone out of fashion.

Dante had been dead nearly two centuries, so this is not a likeness but a verdict, struck in profile like a coin.

He stares out the window, she pokes the fire, and the dots are used here for boredom rather than sunlight.

Two elephants carrying obelisks on legs far too spindly to hold them, which is the entire effect and it works.

A child holding a white dove with a colored ball at its feet, painted just as Picasso's palette was cooling toward blue.

They shared a Barcelona studio, and Soto was known as a hard drinker, but Picasso painted him sober and sad in blue.

Foxes curled together and assembled out of shards of grey, blue and rust. Marc was killed at Verdun three years after painting it.

His daughter Maya holding her doll, her face split front and profile at once, the Cubist trick turned warm for once.

Marie-Thérèse has fallen asleep over her book with her head on her arms, from the year Picasso painted her over and over.

Cocteau sits stiffly upright with his neck drawn long, one of the sharpest personalities in Paris turned into an elegant mask.

Her crossed arms are a wall against the world, and the blue does the rest. Picasso was painting the outcast and the destitute.

Arms up in victory, built from slashing black and a blaze of color. Basquiat kept returning to Black athletes as heroes and as targets.

Four skulls stacked on a tabletop and lit straight on. Cézanne kept coming back to the skull in his last years, never this frontally.

Three swans on a lake, and in the reflection the necks have become trunks and the trees have become legs.

A bride in red floats through the blue night with a goat playing a cello beside her. Many people know it from a film.

Basquiat was twenty-one and two years out of graffiti. His figure in a policeman's cap is penned in by a grid and scrawled words.

Small colored blocks stack up into a town like stained glass, with a red sun above. Klee taught at the Bauhaus and kept the whimsy.

Zeus arrives as a stream of gold coins and ornament between her thighs, and Klimt makes no attempt to be subtle about it.

Poussin stands in front of his own blank stretched canvases with a portfolio under his arm, presenting himself as a thinker rather than a craftsman.

Courbet at twenty-six, lunging at the viewer with both hands in his hair and his eyes wide. Half self-portrait, half performance.

A door opens straight onto the water with no shore in between, and the only other thing in the picture is sunlight on a wall.

Marie-Thérèse asleep in a red armchair, her face split into curves. Picasso is said to have done it in a single afternoon.

The police shut down Modigliani's only solo show for indecency, and this was among the nudes that did it.

A boy from the street in a crown of roses, painted the year Picasso's blue gloom warmed into rose.

Colored bars drift at diagonals across a white void with no ground under them, which Malevich meant as pure feeling and nothing else.

The girl is Ruby Bridges, walking into a New Orleans school in 1960 between four marshals whose faces Rockwell cut off at the shoulders.

Freud sits on a wooden chair in three panels, wrenched out of shape and still unmistakably himself. Bacon painted his friend and rival.

The doctor who was caring for him leans his head on one hand, a sprig of foxglove on the table, the background rippling blue.

Magritte called the floating apple a kind of self-portrait, about how much we want to see the thing that is being hidden.

A girl rolls a hoop down an arcaded street toward a shadow coming around the corner, in light that belongs to no hour.

A lion sniffs at a sleeper in the desert without waking her. Rousseau was a customs officer who never took a lesson.