As you will have surmized from the last few electronic postcards, I have been busy on the art front. The last two openings I commented on, albeit in a chatty sort of way, are focal events in London. Of course, Nick Serota is at the focus of my attention. With him in mind, I am rereading The Karamazov Brothers (sic) in new translation. The parable of the Grand Inquisitor is the main reason for this extravagant excursion into the Nineteenth Century, but the book is a veritable joy no matter why and how one reads it. Old Nick strikes me as a perfect Grand Inquisitor of the art world. He is superb at his job, and yet… And yet… He misses real love, real passion, real pain, real rebellion. So, by and by, I am nudging him into his dramatic rôle by means of my insolent little postcards, which are ever more visible here and elsewhere. The other focal character in this story is Billy Childish, an imperfect Jesus, but still a credible Jesus. I already broached the subject with him—in an oblique sort of way, of course—and he was not entirely unwilling. He is a clever chap, too. As Dostoevsky’s parable ends with a kiss, my literary experiment is not likely to end badly for its warring protagonists.