The exhibition has been on at the National Gallery of Victoria for months, but here I am as usual, on the final weekend, waiting with my e-ticket in a long line. If I’d had to join that ticket-buying queue in the great hall, folding over and back on itself like a giant Viennetta ice-cream cake, I would’ve turned back for home.
I’m not even that interested in Escher. His work doesn’t move me. I find all those upside-down staircases and impossible buildings gimmicky. But he’s a master of perspective drawing. That’s what I’m here to see.
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