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ON A BRONZINO AT THE UFFIZI Her ruffles are strawberry ice, her satin a Sunday School picnic dessert, her dress an essay on thingness, and close to flat-chested she almost gets lost beneath it all, her pale face pinned in an expression of stillness. Richly secular, her finicity posture earns a permanent place, oil on wood, in Vasari's room 18. Sometime late in the nineteenth century I suppose Harry James became Henry faced with a portrait like this--sumptuous velvet wine sleeves, her necklace a harness proclaiming dure sans fin amour, sans fin amour dure. Face ...