And a merry, light ‘arted’ greeting to you on this, the eve of the first calendar day of spring. Yes indeed. ‘Tis the season when life itself seems to burst forth from the winter-dead foliage; when the fresh fecundity of the green meadows feeds gambolling lambs and clumsy calves. It’s a time when young swains’ thoughts turn to maidens, young maidens’ thoughts turn to love and their fathers turn to drink.
We, on the other hand, do not let inconsequentialities such as the the changing of the seasons detract us from shattering the decomposing remnants of an Old Master’s reputation. It’s Vittorio Reggianini’s turn over the barrell today.