Triptych of the Temptation of St Anthony

I am half-snoozing against the glass of the train window as it cuts through the flat expanse of the lowlands. Fields all green and yellow in the heat of summer, the sky is white and bruisy with clouds. It is so early in the morning. My heavy eyelids, I can see all the way out as the fields disappear into the grey horizon. Just saying I’m an art critic feels like I am being too vague. Sometimes I am a crazed stalker, a fan. Sometimes I am a pilgrim. I like to write about things I enjoy, but I try not to write about the things I love. Love can fall apart when it is closely inspected. I find that the mystery is part of the appeal. Four years ago, in Lisbon, I attempted a first version of this pilgrimage. I set out to the Arte Antiga to find a dusty hole where this painting was meant to be (and a sign saying it was on loan in Milan). When I got home I searched for flights to Milan, to find that the show had closed anyway — I imagined it in a backroom somewehere, in transit. No worries, a…