The gallery is long enough that you stop counting the portraits after the first dozen.
Ruffs and doublets give way to powdered wigs, which give way to mourning black, which gives way to something more recent. Four centuries of the same family, hung in order, in frames that have not been dusted in longer than any of them lived.
This is two hours of that hall in late autumn. Low gold light through tall windows, dust turning slowly in the beams, wind against old glass, a cello that never quite resolves. Nothing moves except the light and the leaves outside.
Look closely at the paintings, if you want to. We are not going to tell you what you might notice. That part is yours.
