Spitefully boring. The book, the printed copy, is wonderful - hefty with exquisite reproductions, an item de luxe. It feels so lavish to page through it, that not even the recalcitrantly tedious writing of mr Schütz and his endless enumerations of who bought what for how much when manages to yank the Persian rug of sumptuousness from under it. An then there is Vermeer. The author that smashed my idea of the visual genius as an infallible entity. Books, movies, albums by one artist or artists, they sure vary, you have gems in the catalogue, just as you have turds. Yet with visual arts, which I admire almost as much as I am bewildered by the craft behind their creation, I tended to view the oeuvres of Rothko, Magritte, or Caravaggio, as one glorious whole with mishaps registering merely as foibles, crumbs for the god of statistics. Vermeer smote me with the Milkmaid, the View of Delft is fine, the rest... ludicrous. Memeworthy monotony of lighting, figures injected with austere, still-life paralysis of expression, plain moronic faces. A one-hit wonder, for me at least.