At Copenhagen’s Glyptotek, one expects the collection of classical antiquities and French and Danish masters to come alive in the early hours—for the bust of Nero to leer after Degas’ Dancer, or for Gauguin’s Tahitian Woman to square off against van Gogh’s Landscape from Saint-Rémy, as the two masters may once have done following a glass of pastis.
The Glyptotek tells the tale of 10, 000 different objects. Here, from sarcophagi to sculptures, the weight of history hangs at every turn. A statue of Pompey looks on with ill-disguised conceit, thrilled that his rival Julius Caesar was stabbed to death at his feet; nearby, fellow Roman emperor Caligula still appears disheartened that his statue was thrown into the Tiber by his citizens; elsewhere, a hundred disembodied heads goggle like onlookers in Elysium. Visitors can, in fact, visit the
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