Piero della Francesca doesn’t favour the people much more than the stones. It pours into them perhaps a bit more of the absence and the blushes. In comparison with them the architecture of the background seems nearly friendly and flourishing. The rosette’s valley plays the crickets and the new life should hatch out from the egg soon.
Or perhaps? Perhaps my eyes deceive me? Perhaps the participants of this painting event hardly refrain from laughing?
They say that when Piero paints he makes funny faces and he crackes out with jokes smelling like linseed oil.
Perhaps the earth will quake again very soon. The seismologists will most likely say that it’s because of the impatience of the tectonic plates.
Perhaps someone will see no good omen in that.
All the rest will figure out that the guests of Piero couldn’t refrain from laughing anymore. And for nothing the requests of Mary trying to remind everyone that the baby is sleeping.
The old fellow Piero is laughing too. To the mysteries of the perspective he adds one more measure. A measure of a distance. To oneself.