Eighteen paintings. Six centuries. One quiet catalogue.
The Collection is bound the way a monograph is read — one plate at a time, generous margins, nothing between the eye and the work but a thread of gold. There are no frames competing for attention; each painting is an object set upon the vellum and divided from the next by a single hairline rule.
What gathers here is deliberately various: a Venetian morning by Canaletto, London turned to vapour by Monet, a fresco of philosophers, an orchid breathing in the Brazilian dark. The catalogue is arranged in three sections, each opened by an italic title and a rule of burnished gold.
Begin with the full index, then walk the rooms in order. Every plate may be opened to its full size; every image is in the public domain. The only thing asked of you is time.