I had an epiphany during the recent lockdown. It arrived like tablets of stone, crated, requiring two men to lift, and least half an hour to remove from its intricate packaging. The images that then shone back at me from the dining table have since changed my view of what the printed page can achieve.
I have always maintained that the reproduction of a work of original art, not least a printed one, is a tardy substitute for the real thing. Reasons range from the aesthetic to the spiritual – something to do with the need to be closer to the artist’s tangible presence. But this illustrative magnum opus has brushed aside almost all my misgivings.
