New Haven Independent

Easy to overlook, as grace often is, the small panel rests inside an angled case in the third floor gallery given over to early European painting. One among several, until you lean close to squint the virgin’s perfect face into clarity. A loan made even more generous by its anonymity, this 14th century fragment of a world in which conviction was still possible, now reads as an alien token, some beneficent puzzle. A literate Madonna, framed by gilded lace, the latched book rests in her hand with the weight of a prayer. Clutching the cloak at her neck, cushion at her back, her right leg splayed beneath the cloak’s fabric, as if imagining childbirth’s pose and pain. Her eyes are cast toward the invisible angel’s voice, or perhaps she is listening to the star perched on her shoulder, like light singing.

One of those works that you wish would not be sealed off by closing hours and dimmed lights, but left on permanent exhibition for every moment of need it could minister to. Still, whatever are the limits of time to its being on view, fit them to your schedule. This is compassion’s alchemy — gold turned to the picture of mercy.