Ekphrasis on Botticelli’s Primavera

Spring is a bitch to the barren, a stone-cold pastoral to the lucky few with an empty womb. It’s hard enough, when the world blooms, but then that asshole Botticelli unloads his palette like only a maniac under the Medici could, cramming his canvas with five hundred kinds of plants. The fecundity of it! That’s […]