Aboutness: On Hieronymus Bosch
We are on our way to Paradise. Some say we are there already; and it is true that the soft green hill the angels are leading us towards, and the fountain perched on top with its retinue of birds, could well be a Garden of Eden. The angels are forbearing: they know we're likely to make a slow start. Some of us look to have registered the new light in the sky, and are caught between an eagerness to go onwards and fear or perhaps puzzlement. An angel in red stands next to me. The crowd on the other side of the angel appear to be simple folk - I'm...