It’s probably sacrilegious to admit, but I don’t think much of the Mona Lisa. I’ve walked the hallowed halls of the Louvre more than a handful and each time I clap eyes on her – and her me – I ponder loudly: what’s the big deal? I prefer The Last Supper, Picasso’s Guernica and anything by Rothko. For me, seeing the world’s most popular painting is a bit like the time I interviewed George Clooney (name drop much, Kate?) and felt a little let down that I could see straight over the top of his head. Celebrity – in real life or on real canvas – is never what you expect.
All that huff and puff being said, I am a fan of the below. I think it’s because I went through a phase of making mosaics. How rad (or sad) would it be to copy this onto a quilt or wall hanging? I have visions of myself – in a parallel universe where George is an over-six-footer – heading to our family’s house in France, dying the fabric with stuff I find in the garden until the tones are just perfect and then stitching it all together over a fire next winter. And then I snap back to my central London must-work-for-food-and-shelter reality. She must be dreaming.
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Image via here.