
The Virgin and Child (Ugolino)
The Child reaches up to grasp the edge of his mother's veil. Ugolino followed Duccio more closely than anyone else did.

The Child reaches up to grasp the edge of his mother's veil. Ugolino followed Duccio more closely than anyone else did.

One of the Impressionist canvases he owned hangs on the wall behind him. Caillebotte's money and his bequest kept the movement alive.

Elizabeth sinks down and clasps the pregnant Mary. Ghirlandaio ran the busiest workshop in Florence, and a boy named Michelangelo apprenticed there.

The shepherd carries the twins home to his wife with the she-wolf still nearby. Rome's founding myth as a foundling story.

Christ in vivid red is hauled by a rope through the gate of a white, many-towered Jerusalem while children scamper at the edge.

Only the Virgin and Saint John below the cross, and a river winding past a walled town. Early Bellini, carrying feeling in the light.

A head of pears and pomegranates crowned with grapes, sitting in a split wooden barrel bound with willow hoops. The season of the wine harvest.

Rosebud lips, a lily for a nose, and hair made of tulips and peonies. The freshest and most delicate of the four seasons.

Degas turned from dancers to financiers, catching heads bent close over documents in the crush of the Paris exchange.

Provençal women at a hilltop well above a blue bay, the dots loosening into curves and the science giving way to pleasure.

Two heavy young men press close together over a letter, and the intimacy is usually read as a memorial to Apollinaire.

Lotto crops the Passion down to one tear-streaked head at the surface, with soldiers' hands coming in from the edges of the frame.

Two women asleep and entwined, painted on private commission and therefore out of reach of the Salon and its proprieties.

Caught mid-strum with his cap askew and his mouth open, painted so fast the brushstrokes still seem to be moving.

Eleven of the painter's family on a shaded terrace near Montpellier. Bazille was killed in the Franco-Prussian War at twenty-eight.

The same story at miniature scale, squeezed into a predella panel, and Giotto loses none of the plainness that made it convincing.

Every hair, every glassy tear, every bead of blood, pushed hard against the front of the picture and made to carry feeling rather than skill.

She reads his palm and takes the ring off his finger while she does it, and he is too busy looking at her to notice.

The Muses dance to Apollo's lyre while Venus's cuckolded husband fumes at his forge off to the left. Painted for Isabella d'Este's study.

A monk and a nun bawl a song over a lute while somebody vomits over the side. The boat has no rudder, which is the point.