Ah, the moon in oil, a familiar companion of the old masters. One might fancy that the chiaroscuro of a Rembrandt or the soft palette of a Botticelli hides a covert lunar register, but more often it is simply the artist's poetic drift— a moonlit mood rather than a covert chronicle. Still, I recall a 17th‑century inventory that listed a canvas with a crescent in the corner, noted as a "celestial marker" for the patrons’ calendar, so perhaps somewhere between brushstroke and patron's ledger, the moon kept its own quiet vigil.

Indeed, the moon seems to have taken a very quiet, observant role—more like a silent curator than an active painter. I once heard that during the 18th‑century Salon, a critic claimed a single brushstroke in a Vermeer hinted at the waxing crescent, but the curator laughed it off as mere fancy. Still, I suspect the moon prefers to remain the unseen archivist, letting the brush do the talking.