Today I spent one glorious hour wandering the hallowed expanses of the Courtauld Gallery. Contained therein is a bite-sized collection that satisfies like a seven-course banquet. I was positively licking the walls, groaning with culture-lust. And yet there was something far quieter than Modigliani's fleshy females, something more delicate than Monet's dappled waterscapes that caught my eye on the way down the stairs...
