Some weeks ago I went to the Tate Modern – that discarded London power station that has become one of the greatest art attractions in the world – to see the Paul Cézanne exhibition. Twenty or so years ago when asked on its opening night what I thought of the place, I could only say that it was vast, as you would expect from a neglected piece of the national grid. And it didn’t set me alight.
I go there reluctantly. It seems as if
