I bee-lined for the post office in the depths of the Hermitage. Found it by being humble enough to stop frequently for guidance from the babushkas. Mailed a clutch of illustrated postcards, then wandered around the subterranean level, to see what I could see. Came across the desiccated corpse of a Siberian man with extensive tattoos. The Hermitage helpfully supplied detailed drawing of the patterns. I took photos to pass along to my daughter Emily; musician, artist and, when the spirit moves her, tattooist. 
A few rooms away, above a swatch of preserved skin, was this schematic drawing.
I got caught up in imagining the people who used the everyday implements; particularly a room lined with the iron pots. Nothing dainty, these were hefty cauldrons worthy of Turtle Soup, the main course at Kempf family reunions. I promise you that for every pot, there was a vigorously used paddle. 
There were cases of arms, armor, and equestrian gear. If warhorses were the engines, these saddles were the luxury chassis, interior and rims.
That afternoon I walked the Italian halls of the New Hermitage, a purpose-built space for the display of large canvases. I loved this still life of an oriental carpet. Someday I’ll take a serious run at one myself.
When I realized the enormous stone vase blocking my view was made of Lapis Lazuli, I nearly swooned.
It’s the blue of the Dutch skies and Italian Virgins robes. It was one of the most expense colors to buy, and there’s enough here to paint the ceiling with. Later I was told that these gargantuan pieces are veneered, not solid, but I don’t know that for a fact. It’s still a massive chunk of glorious blue.
I stayed long enough into the evening hour for the hordes to diminish, and got to spend a few precious minutes alone with The Conestabile Madonna. And that’s why I came. Everything from here on out, is gravy.
