“I was standing at the back of the group, and assumed we were about to be given a lecture on artists’ proofs. ‘Henry Moore,’ the curator continued, in a voice that made it clear he believed he was addressing an ignorant bunch of tourists who might muddle up Cubism with sugar lumps, and who obviously had nothing better to do on a bank holiday Monday than visit a National Trust house, ‘would normally produce his works in editions of twelve. To be fair to the great man, he died before approval ...was given for the only casting of a thirteenth example of one of his masterpieces.’ I stared across at the vast bronze of a nude woman that dominated the entrance of Huxley Hall. The magnificent, curvaceous figure, with the trademark hole in the middle of her stomach, head resting in a cupped hand, stared out imperiously at a million visitors a year. She was, to quote the handbook, classic Henry Moore, 1952. I continued to admire the inscrutable lady, wanting to lean across and touch her – always a sign that the artist has achieved what he set out to do.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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