Twice in my life, I’ve lived close to the sculptures of Henry Moore. In Norwich, where I studied art history, huge Moore nudes lay in the grassy field between my dorm and school of study. Many more were inside the building. What incredible luck to see them from my kitchen window. Here in Toronto, the dames are a little further away, but still close to enough to walk over and visit. Only I never do. It’s been years since I’ve been to the Henry Moore sculpture studio at the AGO. It really is a peaceful place. If you’re lucky, you may even hear the girls nattering to one another. “Hey, Marjorie –– fancy a cup of tea after the crowds have dispersed?” “That would be lovely, Amaryllis –– I’ll bring a pound cake.”